It's Not Over
by Caroline Jessamine
Summary: He's weary and needs the war to end, and he has no idea what or who will be waiting for him when it's over, and it's not over, not yet.
1. Chapter 1

_These entertaining characters do not belong to me. They belong to the USA network, the genius of Matt Nix, his writers and the talented actors who give us human faces to see them more clearly. With thanks for letting me borrow them for a while__._

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_Carlisle, Pennsylvania_

At one time the wooden park bench would have easily held what seemed to be two large retired NFL linebackers with nary a squeak, creak or groan, but that day had passed. Several decades of freezing winter snows, springtime thaws and steamy summer rains had worn it down. Like the oversized men who rested on it, it had aged.

The bench had grown rustic and charming, but the men seated on it were not acquainted with charm, though both could be charming if required. The bench nosily protested their muscular weights as they sat, talked and watched.

They were not what they seemed.

Neither man was the kindly, grey-headed grandfather he appeared.

And the man they watched was not what he seemed, either. They prided themselves in the fact that they'd found him, but his appearance was confusing.

He wore the guise of a sanitation department worker.

Bundled in a one piece, navy blue insulated work suit with an orange sanitation department logo across the shoulders, he wore thick gloves on his hands and a navy watch cap on his head. A thick, close beard obscured his features. That man was much more than the worker who wrestled heavy, commercial dumpsters into alignment with hydraulic lift arms that up-ended the load into the truck before compressing it.

In a different time, in a different place, that sanitation worker had worn Armani suits as if they were tailored for him alone. And some of them had been.

In a different time, in a different place, the younger man had saluted the bench warmer on the right.

One day, many years earlier, he had come to him hours after he'd been pulled from a burning Jeep to once again thank him, as his superior officer, with quiet humility, for saving his life. That telling bit of humility had been the turning point the officer had waited for, the glimpse of maturity he wanted to see as he nurtured this man, like the others, with discipline and fairness.

Early on, he'd recognized the young enlistee's fervor and need to achieve, to accomplish. It was balanced with shrewd intelligence, physical skills and a desire for boundaries if only to know where they were so he could breech them.

So many of his young enlistees, like this one, had come from broken places.

They were looking for framework, structure, rules, order, family. They needed to find a place where the world made sense, a place where they could have what they couldn't have in the civilian world. By the time they came under his command, they were halfway toward understanding this world was a much bigger place, both safer and more dangerous than the one they had known.

Only no enlistee had been just like this one.

When the CIA came looking, he had been the fool who told them Michael Westen would make a good recruit. Today, this day, as he watched Westen work, there was no decision he regretted more.

He was not alone in this.

His companion on the bench shared his own deeply regrettable choice.

Between the two of them, they'd illuminated Westen as a target, and then they'd committed the unforgiveable by pretending they didn't see it.

Dan Siebels had backed away from Westen when someone with a title superior to his told him to. He'd let fifteen years of working with the man dissipate like early morning fog. He had followed procedure, and he'd left the man hanging, nearly defenseless as only Westen could be defenseless, in a Miami breeze. Occasionally, he doubted his decision to cut all ties with Westen, especially after he'd been temporarily reinstated.

Yet, as each new chapter was added to the Westen story, he told himself he'd done the right thing. He'd made the right decision.

Now he knew he had never been more wrong.

These two old friends, bundled in their parkas, each grasping a cane for very different reasons, gloved hands crossed on the tops, shared more than this regret for their roles in the life of the special ops sniper who had matured into a CIA operative who, like select others, operated outside normal boundaries when that was required and requested.

Both of the men who now watched Westen had retired, if you could call it that.

They shared a goal, but they had yet to figure how to accomplish it, given their nine to four jobs at the War College.

One of them was conducting a seminar in asymmetrical warfare for a new class of baby-faced lieutenant colonels while his companion escorted them, lecture by lecture, battle by battle, through warfare as conducted in the early 1800s in America, Canada and Europe. They worked together, illustrating how despite history writers' negligence, and despite the modern moniker, asymmetrical warfare had long existed and was successfully employed centuries earlier on the very soil beneath the concrete and brick where their feet rested.

Westen, and those who had worked with him, was one of the most highly skilled asymmetrical warriors either man was acquainted with. He'd had to have been, to survive.

Neither had met either Sam Axe or Jesse Porter, who were the same type of warriors, but each wanted to.

"Siebels, let's move before he recognizes us."

"Pull your hat down." The retired CIA case officer glanced back toward the sanitation truck and grimaced. Westen was watching them now.

"Too late."

Did he recognize them? The man who'd provided instruction in some of the finer points of marksmanship had no doubt he did.

"Damn." Siebels grumbled, as he used his cane to steady his rise to his feet. "This is your fault, Cap."

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The knock was so soft he nearly missed it. "Mr. West?"

Moving aside the curtain that covered the small glass on the door, Michael looked out onto the landing. His landlady was standing on the top step, her hands around a plate of something wrapped in a plaid towel. Her husband, who had escorted her up the stairs, waited two steps below. He was holding a coffee can filled with salt free ice-melt crystals.

Michael opened the door to a slap of cold air that made him shiver. He wasn't surprised to see them there, but he'd hoped he'd convinced them he didn't need anything. Obviously not. They continued to ignore his quiet requests.

She thrust the covered container in his direction, and he took it. It was warm in his hands and smelled delicious. He'd thought he wasn't hungry. His appetite was just one of the many things he'd lost in the past year.

"The store had a buy-one-get-one, so I did. It's pot roast. You eat that. You need your strength. For your work. There should be enough for a couple of days. Oh, and here. For breakfast."

Her husband passed her a plastic grocery bag with something inside, and in turn she thrust that into Michael's hands. "We want to thank you for shoveling the drive last night and again this morning. We really appreciate that."

"No problem," Michael said quietly. "Thank you for this."

She was a small, stout woman who didn't smile much, but her husband, of similar stature, made up for that. He handed Michael the coffee can. "You'll need that for your steps. In the morning."

"Thanks again."

And then they were gone, hurrying back to their home on the opposite side of the long driveway. He watched until they were safely inside their home before he closed the door.

Michael was renting the upper level of what had once been a carriage house for $50 a month and as many repair projects that his landlords could devise.

He'd noticed many of the repair projects had directly benefitted him, but they were even handed in their requests. He'd done an equal number of things inside their home, from repairing ill-closing doors, painting bedrooms and windows to installing a new garbage disposal in a 1950s vintage kitchen.

Now that winter snows had arrived, he shoveled their driveway. Sometimes twice a day, depending on the snow.

Carefully, he opened their gift of food. Snuggled in the deep pan wrapped in foil and then covered with a kitchen towel was the equivalent of an entire roast with potatoes, carrots and onions. The bag contained bread, a stick of butter and a package of blueberry muffins.

He hadn't been hungry in weeks.

It was good to feel, even hunger.

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He nudged her shoulder and handed her the binoc. "Here."

The driveway was clear and the yard light was on, so it was a straight shot across the street to watch as the elderly couple traversed the drive, climbed stairs on the west of the carriage house and knocked on the door.

When it opened, the light came on and he came into sight, he heard her quick, soft inhalation of breath. A few seconds later, she returned the binocular and stared straight ahead.

"That's him?"

"Yes."

He waited a moment before he realized she wasn't able to talk, so he put the car in gear and drove away slowly.

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The flannel sheets were always cold when he first got into bed, but that didn't last once his body heat became trapped in the fibers. The sheets were another gift from his landlady. The bottom one was red and green plaid and the top sheet was littered with pink and lavender roses. The vintage wool blanket was a WWII or Korea item, dark olive drab, with a US Army imprint. It was topped with the newest addition to his bedding, something his landlords had left just inside the door last week, a down blanket he was sure Fiona would have liked.

He concluded the blanket was the reason the dreams began. It must have triggered them. He had intended to return it to his landlady, but once he found he could sleep when it was on his bed, he couldn't return it.

She had been gone for so long, but Fiona came to him now, in his sleep.

He could feel her arms around him, her hands on his face. He wanted her kiss but she was elusive, surrounding him then disappearing, warming him before he grew cold, tugging him to wakefulness before plunging him into a dark erotic moment so quickly come to pass that he would wake gasping, yearning to return to where he slumbered next to her soft and strong form. He knew he needed her but he couldn't tell her, and he could not return to her, not yet, except in sleep. So he slept. On his days off, sometimes ten hours, eleven.

He would sleep as long as he could before he would rise, dress, then punish himself with the job that allowed him to hide in plain sight, to forget his dreams, to forget what it was like for her to be in his arms.

And he would watch and he would listen and wait. He didn't know how long it would take to finish. And he couldn't leave, not until he had the last thing he needed so he could reclaim what remained of his life.

He needed his dreams. He needed Fiona.

He never needed the nightmare that brought him here.

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_Six Months Earlier_

Sam Axe watched his friends in the distance dance the dance of need and rejection. He saw Mike reach, and Fiona reject. He didn't need to hear their words to read their body language.

He glanced at Madeline, saw the expression of disgust on her features then, looking over the top of her head, met Jesse's steady gaze. He realized he and Jess were sharing an opinion, possibly one neither woman would accept.

As soon as Fiona started her stalk back to stand next to Maddie, Sam turned to walk to Mike, but was stopped by a strong hand on his arm with a grip too firm. He winced.

"Do ya mind?" Sam tried to shrug away from the security guard's grip, and noticed it wasn't until Mike motioned for him to back away that he was freed.

"You doing okay?" Mike wondered when Sam stopped in front of him.

"Better. You?"

"Almost."

"What'd you do, Mike?"

"I promised I'd make things right, Sam. That's what I'm doing."

"So . . . ?"

"I'm finishing this, as best I can, for all of us."

"You sell your soul to the CIA, friend?" Sam watched as a small muscle in Mike's jaw twitched as he responded.

"Never again."

"Fi—"

"Is not in prison," Mike replied. "You're all free. You're all safe."

One of the guards interrupted. "Sir? We're late."

"Yeah." Mike stretched a hand in friendship, toward Sam, the pain in his expression relaying everything he wouldn't say. "Take care, Sam."

Sam drew his friend against his chest, felt the impression of the underarm holster Mike wore, and heard his own voice tighten. "You, too, brother."

As he was being escorted to where Jesse, Madeline and Fiona waited, he could see Fi had already turned away. Behind them, the whoompa-whoompa thwack of the helicopter's powerful rotor moved air, making speech impossible until they re-entered the holding facility they'd been in for the past three weeks.

"Where are you taking us now?" Maddie asked, every word emphasized by a strident sarcasm that had become a permanent part of her personality in the past year.

"You're being released," a guard answered.

"Where are you taking my son?" she demanded.

"We're not taking him anywhere."

"I just saw him get on your helicopter. Now, where are you taking him?" she ground out.

"We're not taking him anywhere, ma'am. He's in charge. Not us."

Fiona glanced at Madeline. "So where do we go to get out of here?"

"This way, ma'am," the guard indicated a door.

Sam slowed his steps, as did Jesse while the women walked ahead of them.

"Ah, Sam, so, uh, Mike tell you why he's riding around in a Scout?"

Both men were aware the Army's newest light attack helicopter wasn't fully deployed yet; the fact that one was in use domestically, and that Mike was using it was damned interesting.

"No. He just said he's keeping his promise to make things right."

"You need to talk to Fi."

Sam sighed. "Yeah."

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He found her gathering weapons, clothing and shoes from the first hotel room Elsa had provided for them as a safe house.

Sam had seen Fi's fine Irish temper in full force before, but he didn't have the patience for it today. Every movement she made was a precise exercise in fury.

"Hey, there," he greeted her.

She didn't turn around.

"Where you going?"

She refused to acknowledge him by looking at him, but answered. "Away."

"Does it have a zip code? Postal code? Can I call?"

"No."

"Can I help you get a ticket?"

She whirled around to face him then. "What? What! You want me to leave?"

As he suspected, tears tracked heavy streams down her cheeks. Her nose was red, her face blotchy. She swiped her palms across her face, attempting to wipe away evidence of her pain.

"No, I don't, but you said you're going away, so maybe you need some travel money."

He knew that would piss her off.

"Dammit. You knew. You knew!"

He shook his head sadly. "Hey, lady. I got out the same way and the same time you did. All the stuff I came with was handed back the same way yours was. Yeah, and with some cash. I thought you liked cash. It's, ah, useful."

Fiona dropped the bag she was holding and walked to the opposite side of the couch, away from where he stood. "This isn't about the cash, Sam. It's about the promise Michael broke. Again. He promised me he was getting out. Out. For good."

"He promised me we'd figure out a way to make this right again."

"So he's breaking two promises."

"And he promised his ma he'd get Nate's killer."

Fiona crossed her arms tightly. "Well, he did that, didn't he? And look what happened."

"One down and two to go."

She scoffed. "Is that what you think?"

"That's what I know."

"What I know is that he'll say anything, anything, to get his job back. To get his—"

"Is that what you think is going on? Ask yourself this. What the hell did he do to deserve this? You think this is just about his job? It's about his life. Yours, too, by the way."

"It doesn't matter."

"Maybe not to an Irish National."

Sam knew this was the time and place for clear thinking.

"That was uncalled for, Sam," Fiona said quietly.

"No, Fi, it wasn't."

She inhaled deeply and sat down on the couch, deflated.

He realized he, too, needed to sit down; his stamina wasn't where he wanted it to be. He'd needed to see Elsa, but he couldn't let Fiona's reaction to Mike's departure pass, to let Mike go undefended.

Slowly he lowered himself to sit on the chair across from her. "Look, Fi, I know you and Mike saved my life. I thank you for that, I do."

He waited until she acknowledged him. "You would have done the same for me."

"Want to know what else I thank Mike for? For helping me get back some of what I lost through my own damned fault when I left the Navy. Without that, I might not have a good woman I don't deserve who loves me. She," Sam said slowly, "admires loyalty."

"That's not what this is about."

"No?"

"It's about breaking a promise."

"I haven't seen any evidence of that."

"You just watched him get on that helicopter and, and—and . . ."

"Yeah, I waved good-bye. You walked off. Nice."

Fiona sprung upright and paced across the room, her arms crossed, as if she didn't want to be reminded either of Michael's departure or her response.

"Just wondering something, Fi," Sam asked. "What did _you_ promise Mike?"

She turned and glared at him.

"So if he promised you something, what did you promise him? Anything?"

She remained silent.

"That's what I thought. So, it's all on him, right? Everything."

Sam rose and headed toward the door. "Look, I'm guessing you can stay here as long as you want, but if you're going away, then thanks again for saving my life and let us know where you land, okay? See you, sister. I need to go see a woman about a hug."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"Sam!"

"What?" He stopped, hand on the doorknob, and turned.

"Why do you always take Michael's side?" Fi demanded.

"You think that's what I'm doing?"

"Dammit! Yes!"

Sam turned and stared down the petite fire-breathing dragon. The last time he did this, he lost the battle because he'd wanted to, but he didn't want to lose this one. For either Fi or Mike.

"Last year you decided you couldn't watch Mike do Anson's bidding so I helped you—_I helped you_—so you could turn yourself into the FBI. Why? Because you were right. Mike got lost, and you didn't. But he's not lost now. You might be."

"He promised he would walk away from all of this. He promised!" Fi exploded. "But he's back with the agency, doing their bidding for God knows how long. I can't believe he's working with the people who've ruined his life. His need for . . . whatever it is he needs from them . . ." Her anger, quickly spent now, deflated.

Sam watched her emotions see-saw across her face. She turned away and brushed the dampness from her eyes; he knew keeping her back to him was easier for her. He'd seen her tears before, but in his presence, they were rare.

"I don't think he's with the CIA now."

"Then who's he with? You heard what those guys said. He's in charge."

"Did you give him a chance to explain, Fi? Or did you just walk away because he didn't tell you what you wanted to hear?" he asked softly.

"Stop it, Sam! I can't believe anything Michael says. I just . . . can't."

"You mean you won't. Give the guy a chance. Take a breath. Relax. Chill. Let him do what he needs to do. And if that's not good enough, then it won't be good enough. I'm getting vibes here that you're ready to disappear, and I got to tell you I don't want to see that happen to half the tag team that saved my life."

She turned back and scowled at him. "Michael already disappeared. You mean I can't?"

He sighed. A conversation with Fi when she was in one of her explosive moods could be a lot like dealing with a petulant child. On a scale of out of control emotion, the woman zinged from zero to sixty in a heartbeat then back again.

"Of course you can," he said quietly. "I don't want you go away because I don't want to have to explain to my best friend why I let you disappear. He nearly took my head off last year when he figured out I aided and abetted your idiotic plan to go to prison."

"_Idiotic?" _Her voice elevated a half an octave.

"Well, it was. Kinda. I didn't think you enjoyed prison, did you?"

Again, she deflated. Zing, zing, zing.

Sam took a new tact. "When Mike showed up in Miami what, six years ago? I'm sure he thought he'd be able to take care of his burn notice pronto. He'd be back doing what he wanted to do and that would be that. You showed up. How'd that happen, by the way? Anyway, it started simple, then it got real complicated. Then the complications got complicated, so complicated that yesterday we were all national security risks. Now we're not. What do you think happened? Because something happened, Fi."

This time Fiona sunk down into the couch, leaned forward and stared at the floor. "Michael traded himself for the rest of us. And the cash? $15,000? Where did that come from? CIA bribe money? For what?"

Sam took a seat across from her and stretched his legs out. "I don't know. I could guess, but I'd rather take a breath, think this through and figure out what makes sense. And there's something else that got me thinking about this crap. Did you ever wonder why he's got a permanent bull's eye on his back? I mean, think about it. You, me, Jess, his mom even—we're targets because of our association _with _him. Of course, you brought your own with you."

Fiona refocused on Sam's face. Then she smiled slightly. "Yeah, I did."

"I keep wondering if there isn't something that's tied to when he first got in with the CIA. I wonder if he knows something he doesn't know he knows? Whatever it is, it's big. Otherwise, why would so many people and organizations, especially our own guys, or guys that used to be our guys, keep trying to kill him? Card knew. From the beginning, I bet."

"Michael shouldn't have killed Card."

"That was my gut reaction, too."

"I did not like Card."

"Not a secret, Fi."

"Card's dead, so . . . that means . . . if he's . . . it's not over."

Sam could see the sorrow that veiled her features was oppressing her.

"I'm just so tired of all of this," Fi said wearily.

"You don't think Mike is?"

She shook her head. "I thought so, but now, no, I don't."

"Will you stay here? Promise not to leave? Please?"

She was nodding yes, but he was seeing no.

"Please, Fi?"

"I'll stay here tonight, okay?"

"Promise you won't leave without letting one of us know where you are?"

"I'll think about it."

Sam got up from the couch once more. "I need to see my lady."

"Go."

"Stick around. Please, Fi? He might need you to rescue him this time."

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"Ma'am?"

"Yes?" Elsa depressed the intercom.

"It's a Jesse Porter. He's on your private line."

She ignored the question in her assistant's voice. "Put him through."

The number of people with access to her private number was so small they could be counted with four fingers, and the only way Jesse would have known to call that number was if Sam had given it to him.

"Jesse. Where are you?"

"Hey, Sam asked me to call. We're back, and they got all our phones, so I'm calling from one of Maddie's friends' house. Sam says he'll call you when he's done talking to Fi."

"Where's Mike?"

"Don't know. He might have made a deal with the CIA. He's not with us."

"Fiona?"

"She's not taking the situation well. Sam went to the first place you let us stay. He figured she'd go there to see if her stuff is still there."

"It's there. Thanks, Jesse."

Within minutes, Elsa left instructions with her assistant to clear her schedule for the next 48 hours, dismissed her driver and took her private car to find Sam and Fiona.

For too many weeks, she had agonized about where Sam was, and what might be happening to him and his friends. Communication ceased; they disappeared. No one could tell her anything about their whereabouts, not even the rather unpleasant FBI agent Sam said might be a good contact if she ever needed one.

And then, two weeks ago an NSA agent appeared with a polite request to interview her.

His courtesy was such a dramatic change from her earlier encounter with Olivia Riley, the CIA agent who barged her way into her private office with threats, questions and demands for cooperation and explanations of her relationship with Sam Axe.

Elsa did not deal with bullies. She pushed back. When Riley left, her threats remained, but the woman left without learning one new morsel of information.

The NSA officer shared information freely and told her Commander Axe was currently in a holding facility in Tampa. He informed her Sam was recovering from a gunshot wound, and fully cooperating with the investigation into recent events surrounding Michael Westen, Fiona Glenanne, Jesse Porter and Westen's mother. And then he then handed her a sealed envelope with her name handwritten on it.

Recognizing Sam's bold scrawl, she hurried to read what he'd written: "I'm good, sweetheart. Be honest and tell them everything they want to know. I hope to see you soon. Love, Sam."

With the officer waiting, she called to verify his identity and called her attorney before answering his questions. His courteous references to Sam as Commander Axe helped allay some of her concern.

She'd been afraid for Sam since the night he explained what they were dealing with. He hadn't spared her or attempted to give her false hope. He and his friends were in a dire situation, and he deeply regretted that she would be touched by it.

He explained every ugly, dangerous thing that had happened in Panama, and predicted what would or could happen in the future. Once again, he'd told her to deny knowing any of them. And then he'd told her he found himself in a strange new place in his life. He wasn't afraid to die, but he ached over the possibility he might never see her again. The unassuming sincerity of his explanation troubled her. She didn't want to lose him but she wouldn't want him to stop being who he was: an honorable, brave and loyal man in a world that had too few of them.

It was strange, she realized later, how that moment of witnessing his grief as it stood arm and arm with duty, had clarified everything for her. So she sent him back to his friends, knowing last time they made love might have truly been the last time.

Until she met Sam, she didn't know men like him existed; they were myths promulgated by poets and story tellers. She'd never seen loyalty consistently manifested in anyone, so she didn't believe in it, but she wanted to.

She'd been married for many years to a man to whom loyalty, faithfulness and intimate honesty were not of his acquaintance.

Despite what her son believed, Sam didn't want any _thing_ from her; her company and conversation seemed to be the gift he appreciated more than anything. She gave him gifts because she could, and they cheerfully debated who would pay for which dinner, but ultimately, what he gave her could not be measured with dollar signs.

Companionship and sex were powerful things, but when flirtation transformed into a sincere friendship and abiding interest and respect, and sex became an intimacy so powerful, so unique it could not be duplicated, she realized what had happened. Remove the trappings of their exterior worlds and what remained was the essence of one man and one woman who loved each other.

It was a gift she never expected to receive, certainly not at this time of her life. It was a treasure because, before Sam, she'd only known love in its tattered, tarnished, incomplete form.

In the years since her husband's death, any number of well-heeled, handsome men had attempted to charm her, and most arrived with plans to merge business and bedroom. But one husband was more than enough. She wasn't going to make the mistake of marrying again, and her son grew frustrated as she narrowed her attention on him.

Evan decided Sam was a moocher, someone his mother kept for amusement or pleasure, and he continued to caution her about what he saw as Sam's freeloading ways without seeing his own. If there was one thing she'd learned in twenty years of running a major corporation, it was how to ignore critics, even the critic she'd given birth to.

"Mom, what are you thinking?" Evan demanded after he met Sam. "You got a ton of guys knocking on your door since Dad died, and you picked _him_? Have you lost your mind?"

"Only if I keep supporting your attempts to get out of working in the business that supports you. And, you will speak to Sam Axe with courtesy or some of those toys you are so fond of are going away. Understood?"

Admittedly, that hadn't been one of her better moments in parenthood, but after Sam rescued Evan from a situation neither would fully explain, and she and Evan shared half a bottle of Panamanian fire water Sam insisted restored relationships, things changed. Her relationship with her son had improved.

She'd met Sam by accident, literally.

She'd been in the bar area on the lower level by the pool of the largest Miami property investigating a customer complaint about an obnoxious celebrity guest when she'd backed into Sam and spilled his drink.

"Aw, what a shame," he'd drawled. "I just got that mojito."

"Please, let me replace it," she'd offered, along with her apologies as her pool bar manager rushed to take his glass and clean the spill.

"Sure. How about we get one for you, and you join me over there?" He'd smiled and winked at her, and she couldn't help herself. She'd smiled back. Most men she knew wouldn't make that request.

It was either his appreciative gaze or the masculine dimples that amused her enough to let him take her arm and escort her to a table in the shade. His touch had been light and gentle, appropriate, yet she felt warmth and a sweet sizzle she hadn't been prepared for. His drink arrived moments later, delivered, with deference, by the bar manager.

It was obvious they traversed very different worlds.

She was perfectly groomed and wore a pink Chanel suit and Christian Louboutin heels. He was almost groomed. His hair was a bit too long and a few whiskers stubbled his chin. He wore a pair of humidity-rumpled white linen slacks and a bold pink and green tropical print shirt.

He thanked her for the beverage. "So seems like you run this place, huh?"

"Something like that," she agreed.

He winked and offered his hand. "Sam Axe, at your service."

"Elsa," she returned his hand shake. His palm was warm, dry, broad, calloused and strong. "What brings you to Miami, Mr. Axe? Business or pleasure? "

"I live here. I'm retired now, just hanging out in bars, looking for pretty women and a good time."

She was taken back by his bold, teasing comment but his grin was contagious and the masculine appreciation in his gaze seemed straightforward and honest. She laughed then, and a man hadn't made her laugh in a long time. "Really."

He winked again. "Really."

And then his phone rang; he ignored it for a ring or two then glanced at the screen to identify the caller. She noticed his expression change to something far more serious. "Yeah, Mike. Be right there." He clicked off the phone and thanked her for the drink which he had not yet touched. "Hope I see you around here again."

She smiled and didn't say a word. She'd attempted to relay nothing to indicate he had her full and undivided attention, and within moments after watching him leave, she was back in her office, requesting a private investigation into one Sam Axe.

She was pleasantly surprised and equally wary when the report came back two hours later.

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Nothing could have pleased Sam more than opening the door to startle a tall, slim angel fumbling with her keys, purse and phone.

The expression on Elsa's face flitted from surprised pleasure to relief and welcome. Dropping her oversized bag, she slid her arms over his shoulders to hug his neck as his arms encircled her. She buried her face between his neck and shoulder as he kissed her temple before he slowly pulled back to look into her face.

She closed her eyes and brushed her lips across his. "Jesse called me."

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again," he said quietly against the soft skin of her cheek.

Alligator-tears burst behind her eyelids. "I know."

She tightened her hug around his neck and the instant she detected his wince of discomfort, she pulled away. "What's wrong?"

"I'm fine," he said as she dropped her phone in her suit jacket pocket and reached for his hands, interlacing their fingers.

"Baby—" Sam started to say, but she squeezed and shook her head slightly as she turned to Fiona.

She was on the opposite side of the room, and Elsa was not about to allow one second of her private time with Sam or Fiona to be recorded by a camera or listening device she was certain remained in the room.

The vicious CIA agent who'd invaded her hotel and her privacy and had bullied her and her employees, threatening them with Homeland Security violations and prison terms, had left a series of recording devices in the room, or so her security and housekeeping staff reported. She locked the rooms and took them out of guest use rotation.

Elsa pulled away from Sam's embrace and crossed the room to where Fiona was leaning over, zipping shut a canvas bag.

"Fiona, I'm so glad you're free. Do you have a place to stay tonight? I'm not recommending this suite. It has eyes and ears. It would be my pleasure for you to be my guests in the downtown location."

Elsa watched as Fiona evaluated her invitation. She could see she was tired. "Thank you. I'd like that."

"You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like."

"It'll only be or day or so," Fiona responded, "and thank you."

#

#

#

"Really, Elsa, I'm good. I've been shot before. I'm good. Believe me, please."

She was biting her lip, debating. When he unbuttoned his shirt, she could see the bandage below his ribcage and above his waist was stained, indicating a draining, healing wound.

He'd taken a shower, and the bandage over the wound had gotten wet, so he'd requested basic first aid supplies, but seeing his healing injury engaged every mother hen instinct she'd forgotten she owned. She wanted to call her personal physician. Of course, Sam didn't said no. Firmly.

He'd rebandaged the wound without her help, and they'd moved from the luxurious bathroom to the luxurious bed in Elsa's private suite inside the hotel.

"Please don't fuss," he asked once more.

She acquiesced. "Yes, I just—"

He kissed her cheek. "I'm good. We're all good. I hope."

She refocused. "Tell me what's happening."

He leaned back into the bank of pillows propped against the headboard and raised his arm so Elsa could snuggle closer. He explained the events of earlier in the day as well as the past several weeks.

"It was clear Mike wouldn't be coming with us. They called us all out and he tried to talk to Fi, but we could see . . ." his voice drifted off. "Yeah, whatever Mike said, she wasn't in a listening mood so she walked away. I talked to him for a minute. I don't think he's with the CIA, but whatever he's doing, he's got some kind of clout.

"So we were flown back here from Tampa, and when we got off the plane, Fi's car, mine and Jesse's were waiting. Not sure how they pulled that off, but I followed Fi, and achieved my objective. I pissed her off. She's probably as angry with me now as she ever has been."

"Why did you do that?" Elsa asked softly.

"Because I've seen that look before on her face—she's angry with Mike, and right now, Mike needs her to stay here. To stay safe. He needs to finish this, and she needs to wait."

"You're sure about that?"

"Yeah. I hope I've convinced her."

"What did you say to her? She didn't look very happy with you."

He met her gaze, looked away and then he told her.

"Oh," Elsa said softly. She watched as one of the saddest looks she'd ever seen transform his face and etch worried furrows on his features.

"I don't want to be caught between them, but I feel responsible. I helped her turn herself into the Feds last year. I understood what she was doing and why, and I hated being part of it, because I hated what it would do to Mike. Neither of us saw another way to change his direction, but we tried, so she was right to do it. Just like he was right to do what he did today. But if she leaves now, after all we've gone through the past few months? It'll kill him. He's as trapped as she is, only worse, I think. There's a reason we're out and he's not here. Fi might disagree with whatever he's done, but she's free. He made sure of that for all of us. She needs to hold on a little longer. He can't do that yet, and we don't know why."

"Can you find out?"

"Maybe. If Jess still has a job, he might be able to."

She smoothed her hand over his arm and clasped his hand around hers. He dropped his head to kiss the back of her hand as he lifted it to his lips.

"When will this end?" she wondered.

He put his arms around her fully and pulled her close. "I don't know. Right now, I just want to keep Fi safe. She tried leaving once, but one of her old enemies showed up, kidnapped her and nearly killed her brother. She got hurt . . . I'm not sure either of them is any good without the other, so until he gets back and they can work things out, I want to keep her near and safe."

Smiling softly, she brushed her lips against his. "I feel the same way about you."

Their reunion was sweet and slow and lovely, and she found it pleasantly comforting to watch Sam drift off to sleep with a peaceful expression on his face. As soon as she was certain he was soundly resting, Elsa slipped out of bed, dressed and took the elevator to the floor below. As she suspected, Fiona was not asleep.

#

#

#

"Oh, hello. This is a surprise. Is Sam okay?" Fiona opened the door to her hostess.

Fiona hadn't slept. She couldn't. She'd been pacing from the balcony and through the rooms in the suite. She wanted to sleep, and she'd tried to induce exhaustion, but her sit-ups and push-ups had the opposite effect. An hour ago, she'd finally showered and luxuriated in pleasant privacy. The relaxation it provided didn't last nearly as long as she wanted. She returned to the dark balcony and enjoyed the breeze and then resumed her pacing.

She wanted to talk to Sam, but he was with Elsa. Tomorrow, before she left, she'd find a way to tell him why she needed to leave. She didn't know where she'd go; she just knew she needed to be away from them all—everyone. She needed time and peace. She needed to think, to figure out what she would do next with her life.

_Irish National_. _All on him? __What did you _promise_ Mike?_

If ever a man deserved to shut up and listen, it was Sam. No, it was Michael.

She needed a long, private meeting with Michael, at the end of which . . .

_At the end of which._

And that was the real question, wasn't it?

Was this the end?

It felt like it.

She didn't believe Michael had truly wanted to leave the battle he was embroiled in. To turn his back on it all, to slip away and slide into blessed day to day normalcy somewhere? With her? He said he did but his actions were something else. She had believed him. She used that belief like a shield to keep the crazy thoughts at bay. Soon it would be over. All over. He promised he'd end it.

He promised. Part of her believed he wanted the same things she did, but there was always that place he went that she could never understand. Sam called it patriotism.

Michael didn't call it anything.

She hadn't been prepared when someone knocked on the door, not at this hour. She half expected to see Sam and quickly relaxed her features to smile for her hostess—Sam's paramour, his girlfriend, his sugar momma . . . his whatever she was, this rather elegant and well groomed woman standing in the doorway, studying her. Smiling.

"Sam's fine. He's sleeping. I wanted to speak with you in private."

"Please come in," Fiona said, closing the door after Elsa walked in and turned to face her.

"Sam is concerned about you. May I sit down?"

"Please."

Fiona took a seat on the couch facing the one Elsa sat in.

"He told me he had some harsh comments for you earlier today. I'm not here trying to speak for Sam, and he doesn't know I'm here because I have a situation that, if you're interested, could potentially benefit both of us."

"That's intriguing."

"I have a house in Key West. I grew up there, and I do not have a chance to spend time there the way I would like. I haven't been there in several years. Before my husband died, I used to go there when I couldn't deal with some of my problems. The couple who have taken care of it for a number of years are relocating to Miami to be near their grandchildren. I'd like to take my time to find someone to take their job but I have several other projects here that need my attention. I am hoping you might be interested on a temporary basis. I really do not like leaving the property untended."

"That's awfully generous of you," Fiona said with some wariness. In her experience things that seemed too good to be true, were too good to be true.

"I do have another motive," Elsa explained. "It's simple. Sam's worrying about you, and he's told me just enough that I suspect you are looking for some peace and privacy, particularly after what you've lived with the last year. You'd be doing me a favor, and if you wish, we can make this as private an arrangement as you wish."

Elsa's offer was possibly the last thing Fiona could have expected. She felt a bit off-balance, even though off-balance seemed to be the new normal in her life. "Key West?"

"Have you been there?"

"Near there but not really," Fiona said.

"It usually takes me three hours or so to drive there, or you can fly. I keep a car there, so if you decide to fly you'll have access to a vehicle and you're welcome to use it."

Fiona smiled, bemused. "Key West."

"Are you familiar with Ernest Hemmingway?"

"Yes, but I haven't read much of what he wrote."

"His home is there. It's a tourist attraction. I would strongly advise leaving in the event of a hurricane, but you should be fine since the season is several months away."

"Yes, a hurricane would be a good reason to leave."

Elsa smiled. "Perhaps I should also tell you I have a stipulation."

"Yes?"

"I'm very fond of my house, but I'm not fond of explosives."

Fiona laughed for the first time in what seemed to be a year. It felt wonderful, and so did the idea of solitude among strangers.

"I promise. No explosives," she told Elsa. "I'll keep your home safe."

"This is lovely," Elsa said, rising. "We'll work out details in the morning, all right?"

"Yes," Fiona said quietly. "Thank you."

#

#

#

Fiona wasn't surprised when Madeline answered her phone at 4:45 a.m.

"So you aren't sleeping either," she greeted Fiona when she heard her voice.

"No, I can't. How are you doing?"

"I've been trying to make sense of it all, of what Michael's doing and why. I've about decided I'm just going to have to trust him. What else can I do?"

"Are you going to visit your sister?"

"No, she's coming here to stay for a while. I need family, and I'm stuck waiting for Michael to come home again. If he comes home. I'm so sorry, Fiona. I don't know what to say."

"That's why I'm calling. After the fire at the loft, I don't really have a place, so I'm going to house sit for a friend. I won't be far, but I also won't be able to see you as often as I'd like, and I'm sorry about that."

An involuntary sob escaped. "Oh, Fiona, I don't think I can stand to lose you, too. Where are you going?"

"I'm not going far, and I'll call you, Madeline. I promise. But I need some space and some time. I just wanted you to know."

"Honey, what should I tell Michael when he comes back looking for you?"

"Tell him anything you want. I'm not hiding, and he'll be able to find me if he wants to."

"Okay."

"Maddie, take care of yourself , please? I'll call when I get to where I'm going. I love you."

"I love you, too, Fiona."

Madeline replaced the phone in the cradle and sighed, then reached for another tissue. And wiped a few new tears. She'd emptied most of a box tonight while looking around her house, missing the photos that had been confiscated by Olivia Riley and her CIA goons, mourning for Nate, and praying she wouldn't be mourning for Michael.

She'd filled the ashtray and emptied it twice. After being separated from an unlimited source nicotine while she was in the holding facility, she found her throat was sore and she didn't enjoy smoking half as much as she remembered. Maybe she should quit.

She rested her arms on the table and put her head in her hands. Now Fiona was leaving. Her heart hurt. My God, was there no end to consequences of Michael's actions?

Or, was he stuck the same way they all were—reacting to circumstances beyond his ability to control?

"So where's she going?"

Jesse's question made her jump. Last night after he'd driven her home, he decided to stay to keep her company for the night. Near as she could tell, he didn't sleep, either, but he had stretched out on the bed in Michael and Nate's childhood room.

"Geeze, Jesse. Give a warning, will you?"

"You were talking to Fi. Where's she going?"

"She says she's house sitting for a friend. When she gets there, she'll call. That's all I know."

"Great," he drawled. "That's just . . . great."

Madeline scoffed. "What are you upset about?"

"We're all just . . . falling apart."

"Maybe you are. I'm fine," Madeline said.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Yeah, so you say."

"You didn't sleep either," she accused.

"Nope, just waiting to see if I still have a job or a townhouse. You going to be okay here by yourself? "

"Sun will be up soon. You don't have long to wait."

"Maddie?"

"I'm fine, Jesse. We'll get back to normal, whatever the hell that is."

#

#

#

SecuriCorp was the creation of a group of former Office of Strategic Services operatives, men who left the organization after World War II to form their own private security company. As the years passed, and the OSS slid into the CIA, more retiring operatives joined the company, bringing with them new skills and abilities that kept the organization grounded in its heritage, and in a unique position to serve both private citizens and select government contractors.

When Jesse Porter was hired after his self-retirement from the now defunct, highly secretive office of Counterintelligence Field Activity prior to it morphing into the Defense Intelligence Agency, the elders and largest shareholders in SecuriCorp were pleased with the senior partners who had procured his services.

One owner in particular was very pleased. Col. Anders Porter was a Vietnam vet and one of the co-proponents who lobbied the Department of Defense to develop an S-A-S type force following the rise of terror threats throughout the world. He was one of the early Delta Force unit commanders, but an injury forced him into retirement ahead of schedule, and he moved into SecuriCorp headquarters in Miami where he was always present, and infrequently seen.

He shared a surname with Jesse Porter, and he was impressed with the younger man's credentials and skills on paper. He had been out of the country on business and not present for Porter's initial interview with SecuriCorp, but at the level of employment Porter was seeking, his interview had been taped and made available to the other partners prior to the decision to hire him.

CIFA had recruited him straight out of college, and he'd been making a name for himself until he'd gotten burned. The colonel knew more details to that story than most; his long work with counterintelligence entities in military and civilian organizations had allowed what looked to be a superficial hodgepodge of information to suddenly right itself into an organized pattern.

And if there was one thing people who lived and breathed counterintelligence knew, it was a pattern. The maze that had been created, starting with Westen's burn notice had turned into a writhing, pulsating mass of evil.

The colonel wasn't afraid to use the word. Evil existed, and Westen, Axe, Porter and Glenanne had seen it so closely it was something of a miracle any of them were still alive. It spoke to their skills and their strength as a team. The fact that Porter ultimately became a friend and partner of Michael Westen, the man who burned him, told another story, one the colonel could appreciate.

So, when Porter called requesting a meeting, wondering if he was still employed despite his absence over the past several months, the colonel had been alerted.

Of course, he wanted to meet with Porter, so he arrived early and went to his office to wait for him.

#

#

#

Everything Jesse left on his desk was in the same place it'd been when he was last in his office.

Not even dust had accumulated. Now that was a testament to the air filtration system in the facility, he thought.

He'd called as soon as he returned yesterday and asked to speak with either of the two SecuriCorp board members who had hired him several years earlier. He'd arrived promptly at 8:30 as requested to find Anders Porter waiting for him in his office.

The pleasant news that his townhouse, located inside one of SecuriCorp high security residential enclaves, was still his townhouse was satisfying and a relief, although he was probably going to have to get a new refrigerator. The food that had been left in there had turned noxious. He gagged when he opened the door.

Maddie's hospitality was fine, but it felt good to use his own shower, and be able to dress in clothing appropriate for the business climate he hoped to return to.

Jesse was pleased to be welcomed back, and pleased to learn his superiors were fully informed with his activities over the past five months.

The company's roots were in the world of clandestine services, domestic and foreign, and it remained as fully cooperative as it could with any member the three, four, five or six letter designated official services that protected Americans from any threat, foreign or domestic.

When asked to report on his absence in detail, Jesse complied and verified what was known.

The colonel told him the most current news, that the National Security Agency and Homeland Security had stepped in and on the CIA elements that had allowed Tom Card and Olivia Riley to operate in secrecy, to abuse military resources and kill Americans.

"The NSA requested Westen's services, but he wouldn't agree to cooperate unless you, Axe, Glenanne and his mother were cleared of charges Riley had against you."

"Colonel Porter," Jesse said, "I don't understand why those charges remained in effect. Riley was a traitor, a manipulator. She was selling out DEA agents, trading drug route information for cash. Card ran black ops all over the world, and the charges against us remained? How could that happen?"

"You got a problem here with legends and perception. Card had a long career. He trained about a fourth of the operatives in the field today. Riley had her own little kingdom, so who better would know where the weakness in the system lay? You and Axe—you could have walked away without much of an argument from anyone. Westen and Glenanne, not the same."

Jesse shook his head. "Yeah, because Mike killed Card. It wasn't self-defense."

"He killed an international terrorist."

"Is that how that's seen?"

"Yes."

Jesse took a moment to absorb that. "We were held and interviewed for three weeks—that was fast. That should have been longer. Stuff they wanted to know . . . they already knew. Was the NSA already looking into this?"

The old man smiled and waited to see if Jesse would reach a logical conclusion. "Yes. For a long time."

Jesse shook his head as understanding dawned. ""Homeland was already monitoring Card and Riley, weren't they? And Homeland—it had to be something someone found at a fusion center."

"For as much criticism as Homeland gets for snooping on private citizens and those in clandestine services, in this case, the chatter had been picked up as long ago as—"

Jesse recalled what he'd been working on the day he'd been arrested at the Fusion Center. "As long ago as when Vaughn duplicated my security badge, gave it to Mike and he burned me. Damn."

Jesse got up from the table and walked over to the window with a wide view of the Atlantic. His hands were on his hips; he stared into the distance, absorbing something he should have figured out a long time ago. "It was just . . . coincidence that I ran into that . . . which means someone else in the fusion center knew what it meant. They had to have worked with . . ." His deductive skills were speed-juggling information as rapidly as he could recall details.

"Good thing for Westen you're the forgiving type."

Jesse's laugh held no humor. "Mike kept trying to fix it so I wouldn't find out."

He returned to the table. "Do you have any idea of what he's trying to fix now?"

"We don't."

"Did he get free of the CIA?"

"Anyone who Westen ever worked with or reported to has been called in to review the history of his burn notice. They were already going that direction when Westen arrested Riley and turned himself in to the Coast Guard. He's been cleared, but I doubt he'll ever get the respect he deserves."

"Is SecuriCorp involved in any way? Are we hands off?"

"Not officially. You're back, so we see no reason for you not to stay in touch if you can, and if Axe is looking for something to do besides entertain that lady friend of his, you should hire him."

Jesse smiled, and extended his hand. "Thanks, Colonel. I appreciate the welcome back."

"Good to have you back, son."

"Thanks for keeping the job for me."

#

#

#

Michael stepped into the room and stopped.

This wasn't what he expected.

One by one, Michael nodded to the people assembled in the room.

"Captain. Dan. Dani."

Each person acknowledged him.

"I needed an military helicopter to get to this meeting?"

The door behind Michael opened then closed quietly as one more person entered the room.

"Yes, you did."

Michael looked over his shoulder at the newcomer. "This can't be good."

"Is anything good?"

"I don't know. I guess it depends on how many of you think I need to be hanged for treason."

"We're taking a vote," Dani said and grinned.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

#

#

#

Raines took a seat and set a file on the table. "Let's get started. I have a meeting across town at 4."

"How long is this going to take?" Michael asked. "I have some place to be, too."

"I know," Raines said. "We're going together."

"Then why am I here?"

"This is part of our agreement. Homeland and NSA want a psych eval. They don't like the chatter. It doesn't paint you as a team player, so they want a fresh view. Consider this is your personal operation. We'll call it Clean Slate. I agreed with Homeland and NSA, and you can thank me later, but these folks are your evaluation team. Two of them think it's a bad idea; the other one doesn't."

Michael glanced over at Dani. "Thanks, Pearce."

"You're welcome, Westen."

Raines continued. "These folks know what our agreement is."

"I thought that was—"

"It is, but I believe you can trust these people. In light of your history with Anson Fullerton, Homeland understood you might object to a DIA psychiatrist. This meeting is being taped," Raines said, pointing to a camera on the back wall with a small green light. "However, a DIA psychiatrist will compile the report inclusive of our comments by the end of tomorrow."

"Fine."

"Pearce, you lead off."

#

#

#

Things were moving at warp speed, and no one wanted this mess cleaned up faster than Raines.

Three weeks ago today, after Riley's surrender to the Coast Guard and following her, and then Westen's conversations with CIA deputy director, Raines changed his flight to Japan for Miami. He arrived to find Westen being skewered by a CIA interrogator. His mother, girlfriend, Sam Axe and Jesse Porter had been separated, locked up and isolated.

Since his last operation with Westen, Raines had changed jobs.

His new title was provided by the Director of National Intelligence, although his previous title as CIA assistant deputy director still carried the aura, he had plenty of muscle to remove Westen from the CIA's clenched fist and transfer him, his friends and mother to a secure holding facility at MacDill AFB.

It was there where they could all breathe more easily while he sorted truth, fact and fiction, and when he was done, he permitted the CIA and DEA to speak with Westen and his people.

As soon as they relocated to MacDill, a very nasty Brit arrived at the Miami facility, escorted by a State Department yes-man. Raines sent him back to State while he figured out why he was here, frothing at the mouth, to speak with Glenanne.

Westen wasn't the only one of his team who had become the bull's-eye.

Raines had enough history with the man to doubt what he'd been told. After their reintroduction two years earlier, he'd kept sight of his activities. He was aware several influential intelligence officials in private security firms in the US and UK had been doing same thing.

Depending on which federal agency chair one occupied, the capture of a Los Zetas' Mexican drug cartel kingpin had been an outstanding victory, and for some more than others.

The people who made the victory dance possible, and were not being thanked, were Westen and his people.

Instead they were the focus of an intense investigation once ram-rodded by the now incarcerated and completely silent Olivia Riley. Seeing her imprisoned did nothing to stop the widely-held belief in the agency that Westen murdered Tom Card without cause.

Raines decided Riley would stay isolated and silent until Westen completed the first task on the list he'd devised.

Fallen heroes are fallen heroes, and some fall harder than others.

Raines was troubled that the CIA had too many people in top leadership positions who had fallen, and so was his boss. His opinion that the company had become riddled with common criminals in those positions wasn't widely held which didn't make it false.

The next resignation might be his, but it wouldn't be for malfeasance in office. Some days Raines wanted out of the political swamp; other days, like today, he was happy to canoe through the slime. It gave him a real sense of accomplishment.

Westen's problems energized him. As irritating as the operative could be, what had happened to him and his family was wrong.

Capturing Alejandro Lopez, his yacht filled with guns and drugs, and five of his sicarios who were nothing more than assassins, had quickly turned into prom night for the DEA and the Coast Guard.

Their public information officers were nearly giddy over how many photo and news release opportunities were at their fingertips. There were photos of drugs and guns, neatly lined up. Photos of Lopez' yacht Zazu, and photos of a handcuffed CIA agent trying to hide her face as she was escorted by Coast Guardsmen.

An extemely small number of people knew the truth: it had been an entirely random act that Lopez had been captured. But, he had been captured by Michael Westen.

Raines really didn't care how many stories appeared on the nightly news or how many hits or clicks the DEA and Coast Guard websites counted for the most frequently read story. What he cared about was the huge hole in his intelligence agencies created by Anson Fullerton, Tom Card and Olivia Riley, whom he assumed collaborated at some point.

He was grateful Westen kept his face away from the photographers while he was being escorted away from the yacht by the Coast Guard. Within thirty minutes, the CIA had collected Glenanne and Porter from the scene by the dock; they pulled Axe from his hospital bed, and gathered up Madeline Westen from a disbarred physician's home.

By the time he arrived, the DEA and Coast Guard had sorted friends from enemies, but the CIA had rearranged the line-up to their satisfaction.

His initial interview with Westen had been private, recorded, and precisely echoed details CSS agents had pieced together on Tom Card whom they believed had gone rogue. Then there was their separate discovery of another rogue operator in the person of counterintel icon Olivia Riley.

Raines verified Westen's information, called off the CIA dogs, pulled PR duty with the DEA and quickly accepted the Homeland/NSA offer to employ Michael Westen. This would dovetail with Westen's goals, all three of them—or, perhaps two of them. The last hurdle was Westen's psych eval, and Raines wasn't concerned about that.

Westen understood the significance of what he'd done, a convenient accident of circumstance, and he used it as a bargaining chip.

Raines could have used his friends' involvement in illegal activities to keep them locked up for a long, long time, so when it came to making bargains, they came from equal places of strength and weakness. He'd asked Westen what he wanted to happen next.

"I just want three things," Westen told him.

"Let's hear them."

"I want Sam, Jesse and my mother's roles diminished; nothing should affect Sam or Jesse's service records. Card removed Fiona's asset status, so she needs protection. And, I want out."

"You don't want out," Raines said.

"I do, Raines. I want my life back. The only way that'll happen is if I walk away."

Raines could accommodate him on most his requests, but he could not allow him to leave the CIA yet. Fortunately, Westen had foolishly—or honestly—supplied the leverage Raines needed to guarantee his continued service by telling him what he wanted.

Westen would not change his mind, despite Raines' efforts. He wanted to cut all ties with the agency without altering his identity or leaving the country. That meant he needed to have his record cleared.

"Before we proceed, you should know there is an MI6 agent waiting at State to speak with Fiona. The last time he was here, he was granted permission to speak to her—"

"He's back?"

"He's been following her activities. When Card removed her protected asset status, somehow Interpol was alerted."

"Raines, I need her status changed now!"

"Calm down. It's been done."

"How?"

"The DEA had a cash reward pool for information leading to the arrest of Alejandro Lopez. $330,000. We took 30 of it and split it between Axe, Porter, your mother and Glenanne. It's a paper trail that verifies all of them are assets to the DEA and the CIA. _Unnamed assets_, except on a need to know basis and the Brit needed to know. The rest of it was split between Jason Bly and Brady Pressman's families."

It took him a moment to absorb what Raines was telling him.

"Thank you. And thank you for telling me about Bly and Pressman's families."

Raines tapped his fingers on the table they were sitting at. "Can I assume Glenanne is still your—"

"Yes." Westen got up then and walked to the opposite side of the room then turned back to Raines. "Is MI6 still here?"

"We sent him home. He wasn't very happy. And you don't seem very happy, either."

"I want out."

"I need you, Michael, to finish the Card case and make sure it's sealed tight. I don't want to use your friends or family as leverage, but I will. Do you understand why?"

Whatever Westen said under his breath was impolite, not that he blamed him.

"Yeah, Raines, I understand. But this is it. It has to end. I want your guarantee in writing."

"You don't need that. If all goes well—"

"_If it all goes well_ doesn't work anymore. It never goes well. It hasn't for six years. _Give me an end date. Tie it to something_."

"Michael, I can't do that."

"Then I can't do it, either. I'll take the consequences."

"It'll mean Glenanne—"

The glare Westen sent his direction was lethal.

"Dammit, Michael, you wanted your job back. You've fought for this, and it's yours. You can do anything you want now."

"No."

Raines measured the creases exhaustion had carved into Westen's features. "It's your brother. That's why you're doing this."

"I don't have much family. I can't afford to lose anyone else."

"It's Glenanne."

Westen did not respond to that.

#

#

#

He'd answered all the standard eval questions for an hour, but he'd done this before. He knew they weren't done.

"Michael," Dani said. "We're your advocates. You and I have the most current working relationship so I've let everyone here know you designed an op that had a very personal aspect for me, and it resolved itself for the government."

She looked back to the notepad in front of her. "I'd be lying if I said you're the easiest person I've ever worked with, because we all know better."

Dan Siebels chuckled.

"You're stubborn," she continued.

"Committed," he replied.

"Yes, and when you have an idea, you won't quit even when you hit a wall. Your countermeasures are spectacular but whatever you do, you endanger yourself before others. But you killed Tom Card. How did that happen? We know basic facts. Now we went to know the rest of it."

He held her gaze then glanced at Raines. "I've explained this. Wasn't it taped.? Do we have to do this again?"

"Yes, it was taped. Yes, you have to explain this again."

He shook his head and stared at wall behind the table. Finally, he spoke. "When I walked in on Card's meeting with Gray he had a gun trained on Gray. He was holding it under the table. I warned Gray and told Tom to raise his right hand. When Gray saw the gun in his hand, he tried to reason with him, but . . .

"Gray was wearing a wire. Sam and I had been in a car listening while Jesse and Fi were watching the entrance. We thought Card wouldn't figure we were working together since it was Gray who took the shot at Anson that also killed my brother, the shot Card ordered him to take.

"When Gray's signal dropped, I knew Card was using a frequency jammer. That meant he'd figured it out and would hang everything on Gray. Jesse and Fi spotted the team he had waiting to arrest him when I walked in his office. At first, Card seemed surprised to see me."

"You had a gun pointed at him at that time?" Dan asked.

"Wouldn't you?" he replied. "He shot Gray." Michael struggled with the sense of being crushed beneath an enormous weight. It was as strong now as it'd been the instant before he pulled the trigger and shot Tom Card between his eyes.

"Card said . . . guys like us, we make calls. We know, when we get up the morning, the ends justify the means. He said Anson had to go because he knew too much about his operations in Yemen, China and Pakistan. He said there was no one left to run them, just him and me.

"If Anson had been alive, he would have used his knowledge of Card's operations to negotiate his release after we'd set up the capture, so that's why he had Anson . . . and my brother . . . killed."

Michael had replayed the scene in his mind hundreds of times since he'd killed Tom Card and nothing changed. He'd do it again.

"Then he holstered his weapon, and I lowered mine. He said 'I'm proud of you, son.' Maybe if he hadn't said that . . . I don't know. In Panama, when we were trying to figure out how we'd turned into targets, Gray said Card told him I liked to hear that. He used it with people he trained. I heard him say it to Gray, too. At one time, I would have done anything for Tom Card."

"So this was revenge for Nate dying?" Dani asked.

Michael shook his head. "It could have been, but it wasn't. I knew when Card holstered his gun, he wanted me to help him run black ops, and he knew I wouldn't. I would have walked out that door, and his team would have been all over me, and they were.

"It wasn't revenge. I had to stop him. So I did. Call it what you will. Make me judge and jury, a vigilante or a murderer. Pick whichever one suits you."

"That's not much of a defense, Michael," Captain Novak said quietly.

"Do you think Card was behind your burn notice" Siebels asked.

"Do you? I don't know. I think whoever planted it is probably long gone. What I know is that since I got it, I can count all the people whose lives intersected with mine who've died."

"Who?" Siebels asked.

"My first CIA contact after I was burned—Diego Garza. He was murdered in his home. There was Jesse's handler Marv. Max. Brady Pressman. And now Bly. I don't want to kill anyone else who helps me. I'm tired of it."

When the conference room door opened and a woman walked in, Michael glanced over and quickly and accurately deduced who she was. He sent Raines a lethal glare and stood.

"Doc," he greeted the woman.

"Mr. Westen."

He turned quickly and left, slamming the door.

Dani rubbed her temples with her fingers to relieve the tension headache that suddenly arrived.

"Let me get him back in here," Raines said.

"Not necessary," the psychiatrist said. "I just wanted to give him some encouragement. I think he's solid. I'll process the evaluation as soon as the rest of you return the forms." She turned and looked at the three on the opposite side of the table. "I assume you see it the same way."

Dani nodded.

#

#

#

Michael left his former case officers and his former CO and walked out of the office, took the hallway toward the elevator but stopped on the opposite side of the hall and opened the door to the stairwell. He slumped to sit on a cool, painted concrete step in the cool, silent, echoing space.

He needed to breathe.

He hadn't been alone for weeks now, but since he spoke with Fi earlier today, he'd never felt more alone.

The psych eval questions had taken a little more than two hours, but he was through with that now. He'd held focus and only relinquished a little of it for that last question.

The eval was just one more hoop he had to leap through, but it had taken him by surprise. He was a little off today. Raines expected his well-trained dog to perform one more trick and that's what he'd done.

He performed.

He'd pictured himself wearing a jaunty clown cap and ruffle around his neck, running an obstacle course, jumping through different sizes of moveable hoops for the clown holding and moving them,and looking for his treat at the end the day.

He'd been trained. He knew how high to jump. What he didn't know was how to leave the center ring, or how to step out of the spotlight.

It'd been a relatively short flight back to CIA headquarters in Miami from MacDill.

What he hadn't been able to accept yet, what he had not recovered from, was Fiona's slap.

Her hand had not touched him. There wasn't a mark on his face, but he was still reeling from the strength of her soundless slap of disapproval. Her deep disappointment.

He'd memorized her face in the moment she started backing away.

He had too many of these damned memories, he realized. The last time he saw her in Ireland, seeing her surrounded by federal agents, her hands in the air, seeing their hands wrapped together, knowing she was ready to die with him while Vaughn's men surrounded them.

Every single vision of the past pained him, but today, only a few hours ago, he felt the sting of her hand across his jaw as he'd watched her walk away.

He ached with wanting her to understand how much he needed to protect her. He couldn't explain it, but the sensation of that slap had spread invisible heat on his cheek and tugged constantly at his gut.

It was an old sensation. The first time he'd experienced was years ago, and he'd left her then, too. But protecting her now, keeping her safe—something told him this was the most important thing he could do for her.

He understood he deserved her slap, her rejection. He knew it_ seemed_ like he was breaking his promise, but . . . but.

How could he explain an instinct? He couldn't, yet he'd always accepted the wisdom of that sixth sense that had been his constant companion since childhood.

He wanted Fi to understand he didn't have enough time or words to begin to explain. His last glimpse of her rigid posture as she disappeared into the building with his mother right behind her left him empty. After Sam left, he'd raised a hand to Jesse in farewell. He returned the gesture. By some unspoken grace, he knew Sam and Jesse would watch over her for him, and he hoped they would understand why he was doing this.

By the time he climbed into the helicopter for the flight to Miami, he'd wiped emotion from his face. For a while.

He had not been prepared to meet the small group of people who had helped, hindered, encouraged and disavowed him during his career. They were trying to fix him. He didn't want to be _fixed. _

Getting fixed meant he'd be stuck.

He wanted out.

He wanted Fiona. But he couldn't have her, not yet, and not now.

He had to finish, so that was what he was going to do.

He was going to have to remember how he'd done this before.

He had to take her and put her in a safe place inside his soul, and he had to leave her there until he could find her again. Then he could function.

He stood. Somewhere Raines was waiting for him.

#

#

#

"Fi."

"Hey, Jesse."

"I hear you're leaving. When?"

"Later today."

"Great. I'll be over."

Not five minutes after she replaced the phone on the receiver, he knocked on the hotel room door. He was dressed for work in a light grey suit and crisp white shirt with a deep ocean blue tie.

"You were downstairs. What are you doing here?"

He shut the door behind himself. "No 'hello'? I get a 'what are you doing here'?"

"Sorry."

"Maddie says you're leaving to house sit. Where's the house?"

"South of here."

"Is this a secret?"

"I haven't decided."

"Got your bags packed, I see."

"It didn't take long."

"Yeah, too bad about the loft and your stuff. I drove by. Looks like Oleg's just boarded it up."

"I don't want to see it."

"I can't blame you; it looks kind of sad."

He watched as she swallowed and clamped her lips together before forcing her face into a near smile. "Things change."

"Not for me so much. I've still got my job, and my place. I've been pretty lucky."

"That was fast. They must have missed you."

"Yeah, well, genius is like that. You miss it when it's absent."

At least she had a genuine smile for him then.

She'd been walking around the hotel suite, moving things, picking things up, putting them down, doing anything but staying still long enough to meet Jesse's questioning gaze.

Finally, he moved in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders and held her still.

"Fi, just stop a minute, okay? I need to tell you something. I got this damned big itch between my shoulder blades and whenever that happens, I pay attention. Whatever deal Mike made with the CIA can't be good—"

She looked up then. "I don't care."

"Listen, do me a favor. Wherever you're going, change your identity if you can, your name, your hair, whatever you do, lay low, okay?"

"Fine."

"Fi, I mean this. You don't need to be in contact with your old gun-running buddies. It could be dangerous, know what I mean?"

"I suppose since Greyson Miller . . ."

"Yeah," Jesse said. "That's what I'm talking about."

"Okay."

"And I'm not going to be Maddie, but I'll be calling you or you can call me. I want to know you're safe."

"I don't need a body guard or a baby sitter. I'll be fine, Jess."

He was clearly skeptical. "Depends on where you're going."

After a long moment of his unspoken request hanging in the air, she relented. "I'm staying in Elsa's family house. It's on Stock Island just above Key West."

They'd been a team so long, she understood his need to know and wished Michael shared the same concern.

"Does Sam know?"

"I haven't talked to him since yesterday."

"Still mad at him?"

She narrowed her gaze on his face. "Obviously you've talked to him."

"Yeah, had to. Offered him a job with my company. "

"Really?"

"Yes."

He pulled a small black flip phone from his pocket and handed it to her. "This is one of my company's phones. It's got some unique features. It's GPS-enabled but not until you power up the phone, and you can disable it if you want. Find a land line and call my office if you want to stay private. If you need me, turn it on, give me a call. I put my office and cell number there. And, here . . ." he pulled a second phone from his jacket pocket. "It's a burner with a lot of minutes. I figured you might not have been out to get one yet. Maddie's house still has that crap Riley left, so we're going to clear that out in the next couple of days. I'll get her a burner, too, and give you her number when I do."

She smiled. "I'll be fine, Jess."

He raised an eyebrow.

"_Really. I'll be fine."_

She didn't need to be a mind-reader to understand what else he wasn't asking.

"I'm just going to watch Elsa's house until she can hire someone to do that. I need some time. Some peace. I'll be back. I don't know when."

"Fi, I'm sorry about Mike."

She didn't respond; it looked like she couldn't. "Thanks for the phones, Jesse."

"Take your .45."

"Of course."

He encompassed her in a bear-like hug. "You take care, and if you need anything—"

"I'll call you."

"You're going to be mad at Sam a long time, aren't you?"

"Yes."

#

#

#

Elsa had lunch delivered to her private quarters while she was putting together a few personal things so she and Sam could spend the rest of the day and tomorrow at the house on Star Island, away from her employees' watchful conjectures.

She valued privacy as much as Fiona Glenanne.

Perhaps more.

A pair of strong, warm arms found their way around her waist as she was moving luncheon plates to the table on the balcony from the service cart.

"Hey, beautiful."

She turned in his arms and smiled up into his face. "You, too." She liked how that always seemed to embarrass him.

"Guess what? I'm employed. We can renegotiate the dinner plan."

"Let's expand the restaurant selection," she said with a grin.

"Sounds expensive, but I'm a man of means again."

"Where's the job?"

"With Jesse at SecuriCorp."

"Oh, I saw him here earlier."

"Yeah, he was visiting Fi. Were you going to tell me?"

"If you asked." She pulled out of his embrace. "She's helping me by staying there, and it's a place, safe. My God, Sam, between being in prison and everything since then, she needs to rest. It's a good place to do that."

"I was hoping she'd be closer here. We're used to watching out for each other. It's hard to break the habit, and—"

"And you want your friend Mike to know exactly where she is when he comes back."

"You seem sure of that."

"I listen."

"You do. Still—"

"There's no need to worry. The house has an excellent security system, and, if you want, you can log into it from here. She won't be alone. Kliban Kitty is there."

"I don't know if Fiona likes cats."

"She doesn't have a choice. That cat showed up about ten years ago, and it refuses to leave, probably because we feed it."

"So that's your technique," Sam said as he moved a pitcher of iced tea from the service cart to the table. "You kept feeding me and now you're stuck with me."

She moved her arms up around his neck and kissed him. "It's a hardship."

"Aw, crap."

A suitcase hit the floor with a thump as Elsa and Sam, arms around each other, turned to see her son in the doorway.

"Oh, Evan. Not again," Elsa said. "You need to stick with something."

"Turns out if you've ever had a kidney stone, you can't qualify for BUD/S training. So they gave me the option to leave and I took it."

"Evan, that's—"

"Didn't you hear me, Mom? I don't qualify. That kidney stone I had when I was in high school makes it no-go."

"Have you talked to the Army?" Sam wondered.

"Not yet. I was going to talk to your friend Mike about Special Forces, but it looks like there was a fire at his place. Where can I find him?"

"He's back with the CIA."

"Then do you have any time?" Evan asked Sam. "To go along, to talk to the recruiter?"

"Sure. When do you want to go?"

"Tomorrow maybe?" Evan asked.

Elsa interrupted. "Make it Friday, Evan, and you can have the Playboy Suite while you're here."

Sam turned and looked at Elsa. "Playboy Suite?"

"Hefner stayed in it once, and the staff has called it the Playboy Suite since then."

"That's cool, Mom, since you sold my house."

Elsa focused a perturbed glare on her son.

"Okay, okay, since you sold _your house_ that I lived in."

"Sam and I are going to Star Island and we'll be back Friday morning," Elsa said.

"Fine. I'll just stay here and behave myself. Is there enough lunch there for three?"

#

#

#

Fiona left her car with Jesse and flew into Key West. Elsa's house wasn't that far from the airport, but it was so different from the sights and sounds that had been her day to day life in Miami, that she realized this was exactly what she was looking for.

A change.

The older couple who were Elsa's retiring caretakers had met her at the airport, and had taken her to the house. They were anxious to leave, so once they started telling her what she needed to know about Elsa's house, Fiona couldn't absorb it fast enough.

They quickly showed her the peculiarities of the house, warned about a plumbing problem in one of the bathrooms, and had shown her which a bedroom would be for her use while she was there.

It wasn't a luxury dwelling by any stretch of the imagination. It was low slung family home, built in the 1950s, that matched many of the homes near it in style and size. The only thing that made it different was that it sat on a larger slice of land than many of the houses she'd seen before she arrived, and had a decorative iron fence surrounding the property. The nearest neighbor was the small house where the caretakers had lived.

She was pleased they were organization freaks, and they showed her how any question she could think of could be readily answered by checking the laptop in the office. They explained the security system, and introduced her to the fattest grey tiger-striped cat she had ever seen.

Kliban Kitty joined the household as a stray kitten Elsa brought home from one of her walks a decade ago, and they'd been caring for it since.

"We just call it Kitty, but Elsa always says Kliban. Like the artist. If you can't find him, tap a spoon on the side of one of the metal food cans, and he'll come running."

The cottage where they had lived adjacent to the house would be undergoing renovations before the new caretakers arrived, they explained.

They left her with a refrigerator filled with food, keys to the house and their cottage and a BMW Mini in the garage. There was also a wildly painted bicycle and a tire pump in the garage and they warned her that one of the tires consistently lost air.

And then they were gone, off to their new life.

Fiona was left trying to figure out what to do with her old life.

She thought about using the bicycle to explore, but instead decided to further investigate Elsa's house.

It was obviously a family home, and the collection of photos in the master bedroom told the story of a man and a woman and two children, a boy and a girl. And then the man and the boy disappeared from the pictures and the photo history stopped with a photo of a baby in a cradle.

Today, she changed into shorts and rummaged through her bag for the dress shirt she'd taken from Michael. If he was missing it, he could come and collect it. When she opened the door from the central living area onto a screened porch she could see a storm was gathering on the horizon, and the sky was growing darker.

It fit her mood perfectly.

She shut the door, locked it, and turned on the lamp by the plump chaise before reaching for one of the books Elsa left by the table—a worn anthology of Hemmingway stories. She flipped pages until she found a title page, opened the book and then promptly fell asleep as the sound of wind and rain increased in intensity.

Furry feet kneading her bare thigh with tiny needles jolted her into wakefulness. "Hey!"

The cat hopped down and yowled.

That's when Fiona realized the light outside had changed, the lamp was still on next to the chaise, and the book she'd opened had dropped to the floor. She scanned the room, looking for a clock then hurried into the bathroom. She was still looking for a clock when she saw the laptop, so she turned it on and waited for it to power up, which was how she knew she'd missed an entire day. She'd slept 16 hours and it was now three in the afternoon.

The cat yowled again.

"What is your problem?"

The cat started walking away and turned to see if she would follow. When Fiona's stomach grumbled she understood. If she needed food, Kitty probably did, too.

This was going to work out well, Fiona thought. Peaceful surroundings. A companion that wouldn't lie to her or make promises he had no intention of keeping.

#

#

#

Dani Pearce rapped on the door of the suite being shared by Dan and Cap. Her room was on the floor above them, and would be until she had time to find a new apartment and get her things out of storage.

After Michael left the conference room, after the DIA psychiatrist left, and after Raines followed her, the three of them had sat at the table wondering what the future might hold for Michael Westen. They collected their prep materials and decided to meet in less official setting of the hotel room Siebels and Novak were sharing.

She learned Dan Siebels, who had recently retired, had been Michael's case officer for fifteen years. Cap Novak, also retired, had been the CO of a Ranger battalion who met Raines when he was a CIA recruiter looking for talent, when Michael was a Special Forces sniper. All three of them had worked closely with Michael. They shared similar opinions, but different perspectives.

Siebels and Novak, she also learned, hailed from the same area in Georgia, and once played college football on opposing sides of field. Now they were just old friends.

"Come on in," Dan invited. "Hungry? We ordered some sandwiches and coffee."

"I'm not hungry, but I'll take some coffee."

Pearce followed Siebels to the table where Novak sat studying one of the files Raines had left with them.

Novak smiled at her. "You look worried."

"I am."

"After reading this fraudulent eval, I can understand why. Fullerton did a hell of a job. What a genius bastard. People like him and Card mask their internal rot brilliantly over a period of time. It's fascinating to see how Fullerton twisted a meaning here, altered a word there, changed a recommendation slightly to create an entirely credible and entirely false evaluation. Very slick. It's interesting how he managed to change Card's files, too. There are so many subtle misinterpretations for both Card and Westen. It looks like he had plans to blackmail or use Card, too. "

Siebels handed her a cup of coffee and took the chair across the table from her. As he sat, he flinched.

"You okay?" she wondered.

"Getting a knee replaced," he said. "I'm glad we did that today. I think correcting those evals is going to make a lot of difference for Westen."

"Can you be sure it'll happen?"

"Raines and that psychiatrist will get it done. I've worked with her on several projects, and we taught a class together last year on evaluating personnel in the field. I'm confident Michael will be fine," Novak said.

"He's impulsive and risk-seeking, that's not—"

"As you know, those are the two acceptable, beneficial traits for a psych eval for an operative, with positive and negative poles. Westen lands on the positive side far more often than the negative. He's in balance. On the other hand, Card was clearly narcissistic, vindictive, anti-social and paranoid," Siebels said. "Ask anyone who had to work with him. And the last trait the unsuccessful operative in espionage needs, the inability to form a commitment. It's the calling card for any traitor. That's not Westen."

"Fiona Glenanne might see that commitment thing differently," Dani said dryly.

Siebels grimaced. "Card certainly did. Fifteen years ago, I was damned irritated with Card. He got on my turf, stepped in where he wasn't wanted or requested, and pulled Westen out of Ireland so he couldn't bring Glenanne with him. He was afraid of her, the connection between them. Westen was trying to keep his asset alive, and yeah, it was clear he'd crossed the line with her, but his cover was about to be blown. We'd worked together for almost two years by then, one of them official, but someone at the agency thought it appropriate that his training officer could step in. I thought it stunk. I told Card that, told him I could handle it, but he ignored me. I even filed a complaint, but it never went anywhere. Now I'm looking at this differently. Card redirected Westen then got him involved with Larry Sizemore. Talk about someone who was a negative influence on a young agent."

"I know that name," Dani said, searching her memory.

"You should. That was who Glenanne went after at the British Embassy when Fullerton helped her express herself by providing additional firepower she wasn't aware of. I just read that report last night."

Dani nodded but frowned. "That's right. Fullerton manipulated that situation, the same situation Westen manipulated right up until Glenanne surrendered to the FBI. That's when I found out about Fullerton, when we had another agent go rogue and an op go belly up," she grumbled. "I wish Westen could have trusted me sooner."

Siebels shook his head. "I wish I would have trusted Michael when he got the burn notice."

"If you had, you might be dead now," she said quietly.

Siebels eyed the stacks of reports on the table. "I can't help but wonder now how this could have all been different."

"Don't go there," Novak advised. "The past is past. Spend your energy on the situation now."

"He wants out, but Raines doesn't want that. I can't see a happy ending here, even after he cleans up his record," Dani said.

Novak was looking at it differently. "His record needs to be corrected, and he might be down to killing the last snake in the snake pit, but it still needs to be done. If I understand this correctly, he's probably the only person who'll be capable of untying the Gordian knot."

"I agree," Dani said quietly. "But he shouldn't die doing it, and before you both tell me how capable he is, let me remind you he has not worked alone for a long time. The people he has depended on most are out of the picture. I wish understood what Raines really wants. He informed me earlier today I've been reassigned to Miami."

"It's not over," Siebels said. "You'll be involved."

Novak agreed silently.

#

#

#

It was unsettling to look out and observe a Miami sunrise knowing he couldn't see or talk to the people he wanted to see and talk to. He and Raines were going to Saipan, and Raines was taking today to arrange for all the documentation they'd need; the briefing sessions would begin within the hour.

He knew he should eat something, but didn't feel like it.

He'd showered, shaved and was mostly dressed when he reached for his shirt and unfolded it. It shouldn't be too wrinkled, and the suit jacket would cover most of it if the collar was not wrinkled. Someone had retrieved his bag from the hotel room they'd used as a safe house briefly.

Today was the first day of the last of his career. Or so he told himself. Homeland had nailed Tom Card's involvement to a well-known software pirate, and the debrief on the op would begin in the next 30 minutes.

He shook out his shirt and slipped into it, buttoning the cuffs first. It wasn't until he was buttoning the center placket that he realized it was missing a button.

His hands stilled.

The last time he'd worn it, Fiona had noticed the missing button and she'd smiled as she slid her finger through the gap to touch his chest.

Such a small thing.

Such an important thing.

Smoothing his hand over the shirt front, he finished buttoning it and added the tie which would cover the missing button.

Then he waited for his heart to stop thumping so heavily in his chest.

That afternoon when he returned to pack his stuff and leave on the flight to Atlanta, which would change over for the long flight to Tokyo then Saipan, he took off the shirt, folded it and stuffed it into an envelope he'd picked up in the gift shop downstairs.

He chose another shirt then found a hotel notepad and told her exactly how he felt.

He sealed it and addressed it to Fiona Glenanne C/O Madeline Westen and asked the concierge service to mail it for him.

They said they would.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

#

#

#

First class air travel had the benefit of comfort and a degree of privacy.

"Apparently not everyone suffers from budget cuts," Michael commented as he unbuckled his seat belt.

"You could be sitting in the tail end. Be grateful." Raines handed Michael a three-inch thick binder. "Here. It's a long way to Tokyo."

Michael opened the book and skimmed the contents. _The State of the Northern Mariana Islands _was typical background reading prior to an assignment in unfamiliar territory.

"Don't let that put you to sleep, Westen," warned Homeland agent John Chen as he adjusted his seat back, slid on a pair of half-glasses and re-folded the copy of the _Wall Street Journal_ he'd brought with him.

"I don't sleep on planes," Michael mumbled.

This morning Chen provided background as Raines outlined the operation HSI devised.

"You're the greedy American," Raines said. "You'll go in, dangle the carrot, resist and then take it. As soon as he accepts, John arrests him, and you get to handle his security if he brings any."

"Sure. Just two of us?"

"Why not?" Raines asked. "You can handle it."

"Reviewing fundamentals, that's all."

"Westen, I've got two agents in place; they've been there about two weeks," Chen said.

John Chen was a former CIA agent who now headed one of the special Homeland investigative units. He'd been tracking a Chinese businessman, Zhang Xi, who had been selling illegally-obtained US and UK developed software on his website for almost a year.

"He's not selling bootleg Windows or Photoshop. The software Card acquired and sold to Xi was critical to defense, space technology and engineering programs the military and NASA uses. Every minute it's been gone, lives have been lost. After Xi obtained the software, he broke it into component parts and he's been selling it online at _xiloaddotcom _since then.

"We're purchasing from the site?"

"As soon as we found it," Chen said, "and as often as possible for legal."

"This only works if he comes to Saipan," Raines inserted. "If we haven't made him an attractive enough offer yet, we'll know soon. There's a possibility he won't show up."

"I wouldn't bet on that," Chen warned Raines.

The website had been the focus of copyright attorneys for a decade. Every successful software pirate operating outside of the U.S. was highly skilled at evading arrest or extradition, and Zhang Xi, their target, the largest seller of pirated software in the world, excelled at it. He'd been untouchable since he'd made it a habit to never leave his homeland.

Except once.

A week after Card's death, Chen was able to trace Xi's movements to Saipan where Xi made contact with Card. It was the gotcha moment Chen was searching for, an opportunity waiting to be exploited.

The crime, which fell within Homeland Security Investigation's expansive reach, was first identified when a senior NASA engineer was conducting a routine review of leading pirate websites. As he was clicking midway through one of the programs for sale, he realized he was looking at a description his own component, a software module used in specialized programs for a ballistic missiles defense system.

He purchased the software, waited for the download and there it was—the result of many months of his hard labor. U.S. national security was on sale on a Chinese discount software website. He quickly located another program that had been plagiarized, altered in small ways, but his program had been stolen, line for line.

Angered by the theft, the engineer sounded the alarm, and received instantaneous attention from officials at Missile Defense Agency, now several generations removed from the Star Wars Defense program. Chen worked closely with scientists as they followed the convoluted trail back to the source, but it wasn't until Tom Card had been killed, his office emptied, and his work stations and home secured that the connection was discovered.

The significance of Card's traitorous action which put new, highly classified technology in the hand of the country's enemies and on the open market, was that it slowed efforts to secure several networks for another year.

The sting Chen was creating got an assist when Raines arrived, fresh from interviewing Michael Westen following the DEA bust and Card's death. Chen and Raines had worked together on several projects years earlier, so they were on the same page when it came to putting Xi out of business.

Whatever Card had been doing in China, Yemen and Pakistan—they had committed themselves to unraveling it, destroying it. Initially, Chen had been concerned about bringing Westen on board, but Raines gave him access to the files he'd kept on his activities which confirmed the maligned agent's skills would be the assist they needed.

Chen proceeded and made the initial offer to the Chinese businessman. He would run the op, but it would be Michael who would finesse the transaction. Of Chinese heritage, Chen spoke both Mandarin and Beijing dialect Chinese, so he would act as Michael's interpreter. Only ten percent of the population in the Marianas spoke English; Chinese, the Philippine languages and Chamorro predominated, even though the Marianas were an American territory.

And that was the beauty of the operation. If Xi's shoes were on the volcanic soil of an American territory, Homeland could arrest him and return him to Washington.

"They think," Chen told Michael, "the profits Xi made range around $100 million on the first batch Card sold. If we promise him more, we think he'll bite. Greed usually wins. It's a good thing that sonofabitch Card is dead, Westen, because if you hadn't killed him, I would."

"You've got a question," Chen said thirty minutes into the briefing when saw Michael frowning.

"The HSI unit dismantles criminal organizations. I've been—" Michael started.

"Why do you think we need your help?"

Raines glanced at Michael. "My gut tells me you're tied to this, somehow. I don't know what plans Card had for you."

"Just your gut?"

"You know how research works. Pull a thread here, follow a trail there, when you end up with the same unanswered questions in several places you look to see if anything links them together."

"Your name shouldn't have been anywhere near Chen's investigation, but it was," Raines said.

Michael watched Chen's demeanor change from mild mannered special agent to warrior. "Imagine holding your nation's most important, most expensive, most sophisticated technology in the palm of your hand and then selling out your country. While you were getting crap about shooting Card, we finally had access we needed to fill in the missing pieces of information that tied him to Xi."

Michael shot Raines a quick look. "So the main reason you kept my team isolated for three weeks was to give Homeland time to dot the _i_s and cross the _t_s for this case."

"Yeah," Raines said.

Ten hours later, he told himself he should have been happier with Raines' efforts to play fair than he was.

He stared out the window of the plane into a night dark sky and reached inside his shirt pocket to retrieve the grainy photo print of Zhang Xi. The image had been teasing his memory since he first saw it.

He studied Xi's face then closed his eyes. What if . . . the man had more hair?

And was thinner?

What if he had seen this man ten years ago in Djibouti?

"Well, damn," Chen said, flipping the newspaper page. "Sometimes I wonder what in the hell we're doing." He tapped headline: **US battery firm sold to Chinese company**, then held it so Raines could read it. "Why steal critical technology when we'll sell it to you? Dammit. This kind of thing makes me wonder what in the hell I'm doing this for."

Chen handed Michael his newspaper and stood. "Excuse me. I need to . . . move around."

Michael glanced at the story then handed the newspaper to Raines.

"I ask myself the same question."

"I don't know why. You know the answer.

Next he handed him the photo. "I've seen him before."

"Where?"

"Djibouti, about 10 years ago when you were in Yemen."

"Will he recognize you?"

"No. I was watching him from inside a building."

"Why?"

"He was selling RPGs and land mines to Greyson Miller's father."

#

#

#

Fiona yawned and stretched, her movements mimicking the fat, grey tiger striped cat yawning and stretching on the opposite side of the bed.

The digital clock on the bedside table read 9:07 a.m. There were worse things to do than isolate one's psyche and coddle it with sleep.

The cat jumped down and meandered toward the kitchen, tail waving in the air. She'd learned leaving his food bowl filled constantly eliminated his tendency to yowl.

The loudest thing in the house was the cat. The TV and radio remained silent. The only information source she sought was a telephone directory. It was amazing how much information it contained—maps, business locations, phone numbers.

Although she could hear airplanes above and cars on the road outside from time to time, Elsa's home was in a very quiet location, and Fiona was enjoying the silence of sunny days and windy evenings.

The pattern of sound was so steady, low and calming that rest came easily. Sleeping had helped her regain her equilibrium.

When she walked away from Michael, she stepped out of the spinning gyroscope, fell and hurt herself. Restorative hours of sleep didn't change circumstances, but having a rested body allowed her mind to work with some clarity, and feel normal sensations again like hunger.

As she lay in bed, she remembered a package of frozen strawberries was in the freezer, and wondered if frozen strawberries and vanilla yogurt blended in the Cuisinart would make a wonderful breakfast.

Mornings were peaceful, but her evenings were troubled.

She decided she'd slept so much because she'd missed hours and hours of it for almost a year. Prison had not been restful. It struck her upon waking from one of her 12-hour sleep cycles that she might be taking the path of least resistance to deal with depression. If she slept, she didn't think. She didn't hurt. At least that was her self-diagnosis.

By the time she arrived at Elsa's home, her extended adrenalin high peaked, careened off the steep mountain and crash-bump skidded all the way to the bottom.

She'd started talking to herself. "Have you _ever _made a good decision for yourself?"

The answer was easy. "No."

The cat apparently thought she'd been talking to him and would meyowl.

Before her flight to the Keys, she weighed Jesse's warnings about changing her identity. Then she remembered what was stashed in her bag—all the essential documents she needed to live with Michael in a non-extradition country.

When she pulled out the collection of new IDs, Jesse nodded his approval.

"Who are you? I forgot," he wondered as he checked her counterfeit Florida driver's license. "Yo, Kimberly. Hey, I think you and Pearce have the same first name now. I'll tell her if I ever see her again."

"Is she back here?"

"Maybe. Hey, Fi, when you're there, keep your head down and check in so I don't worry."

She promised him she'd call him after she got to Elsa's place, and she did. She left a message on his office phone three weeks ago.

"This is Kimi—all is well. See you soon."

It took her two blinks to decide her name was not Kim, not Kimberly, but Kimi. It was as far removed from being Fiona Glenanne in both in style and substance as she could imagine. And, it was a great starting place for planning the rest of her life.

Trusting Jesse's instinct about changing her identity had been easy. When the last metal-barred door closed behind her as she left the prison, she realized she'd developed a new anxiety, one that could send an icy spear of fear down her spine. The thought of being incarcerated again was chilling.

Her friend Ayn told her she'd learned her lesson in prison; Fiona had agreed at the time, but she wondered if that was only the first step she needed to take to complete lesson she obviously needed to learn.

Yesterday was gone, and as absent from today as Michael.

She'd seen that sincere disappointment on his face before, always in the moments that preceded him leaving for someplace else. That would never change and neither would he.

She could change.

Today, she wanted—needed—something to look forward do, something to build the new person she wanted to be.

She'd been toying with an idea for two weeks. What would a Kimi look like?

As soon as she asked herself the question, she knew.

Next question: Did she seriously think Michael was going to change?

This new self-examination process had been prompted by an underlying anger she hadn't experienced in years.

She knew he loved her; that wasn't in question. He knew she loved him. That wasn't in question either. Yet in that last embrace on the tarmac, she pulled away from him and knew they had done this before, many different ways, for many years. He couldn't change. He said he wanted to, but she could see the dishonesty of that in his face. He was getting ready to leave; men waited for him. He would return to the CIA, and she would . . .

She would leave.

She had to. As long as she separated herself from the familiar and stayed away from him, she would be fine.

Her thoughts returned to their explosive reunion after he finished the South American op. Twenty-four hours. They barely had twenty-four hours together. It was crushing to know the cycle would repeat itself, and it would continue for as long as she allowed it.

That had to change.

She would have to figure out what to do, how to live, now that she would no longer be involved with the illegal arms trade. Card's negotiation on her behalf had neutralized her in two different ways. It allowed her to leave prison as his protected CIA asset, but it sealed her fate. She was poison now, and especially for those partners who were aware Michael had triggered Greyson Miller's arrest.

Miller's reach as an arms trader extended to Europe and the Middle East and, the last she knew, South America as well.

Not only was she poison now, she was vulnerable to anyone who might connect her to the arms trade.

Her life crystallized into a summary of all the things she couldn't have.

She could not have Michael.

She could not have her former career.

She could not have her family without putting their lives at risk. Sadly, all of these unhappy realizations fit under one tidy umbrella. She had been trapped by fate, destiny, karma, a predetermined course of events—and she was stuck with it.

At least she stopped fighting it before Michael had.

She had been so very young that night when she learned she was one of the unlucky people who could only give her heart once.

The dimensions of time and space slipped away and isolated her from being as she was encased in a silent cocoon to meet her destiny. When he began walking toward her, this perfect stranger whose name she did not know, she stepped inside a haze of countless tomorrows. A soft smile softened his features, and his eyes sought hers. In that instant, she memorized everything about him, and as she did, she felt the need to run away, to escape.

He'd asked her to dance, but she couldn't find her voice because she couldn't understand what was happening to her. Flickering flashes of what would be between them momentarily stunned her, stealing her ability to speak. Did she hear the words or dream them when he said "you will be my forever."

The dim lighting inside the pub faded as she adjusted focus to see him through the viewfinder of her heart, as his face was transferred from lens to mirror to pentaprism, his image preserved forever, imprinted upon her soul.

He held out his hand; she put hers in his, and the touch of his flesh on hers was so electric, so familiar and so alarmingly new, she reacted as the frightened woman she was. She pressed a pocket-sized revolver against one of his ribs, but it did not deter him.

When they parted later that evening, everything she had always known had changed permanently, and there was nothing she could do about it. The realization that he would be her other was unsettling.

It was impossible to understand why her natural resistance evaporated when he touched her. She embraced temptation while trying to protect herself, and the moment she let down her guard to trust him completely, he disappeared.

She thought she might die. She encased herself in emotional steel.

Then fate intervened again; it led her to Miami because he kept the way for someone to find her.

It was there he told her what they'd shared in Ireland hadn't been enough. For him. She could see his lie, and she'd teased and pressed him to make him admit it, which he finally did. Then he'd pushed her away once again, slower then, perhaps because they had possessed each other so completely, so thoroughly, that night in the loft.

The question between them had been answered.

She didn't have to call him a liar to his face if he denied it. All she had to do was look at him, hold his gaze. He would always look away first.

She kept drifting into the past, and she had to stop.

"I can't do this again."

Saying it out loud solidified her decision. That was the moment Fiona Glenanne, now Kimi Harrison, decided she would disappear, a day at a time, a step at a time.

It was just her misfortune she was stuck loving Michael. She could not change that if she wanted.

"Dammit!"

Loving Michael had been the most disastrous event of her life. He should have arrived with a warning sign:

_DANGER: Fall in love with me, and I'll fall in love with you, and then I'm going to push you away while I'm pulling you into my arms. You'll wish you never met me, because if I have to choose, I'll choose my job, my country, what I do—all of these things will be first before you. Always. If you love me, then want what I want. Those are my terms. I __w__on't negotiate, but I'll tell you things that will make you think I've promised you something, but the only promises I'll make will be to others for something that involves my work. You can help me and I'll thank you for it, but that is all._

What had she promised Michael?

Sam had asked the question. Did he think she wouldn't know the answer because she couldn't respond? She'd promised him everything. She promised to love him forever, and she did not break her promises. She couldn't.

The painfully crippling thing was knowing it would never be enough. Michael had shown how easily he could turn and walk away.

They had a history, a story stuck on the same page, so she closed the book; she was making changes, starting now.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she pulled off her sleep shirt, and headed for the shower.

After she shampooed her hair, she blow dried it, then brushed it into a smooth pony tail. Twisting it up, she used a rubber band to contain it then reached for a pair of scissors and cut off the ponytail above the rubber band.

What remained fell down and curved around her cheeks. It was uneven, short and choppy.

Fiona's new beginning began by piercing her heart with a pair of scissors. This was more than symbolic. It would be the visible reminder she needed to separate who she had been from who she would be.

She didn't plan on finding tears muddling her eyes, so she swiped at them. Studying her reflection in the mirror, she saw she was still herself. Revised.

Her hair, she found, spearing fingers through it, was much shorter than she planned. She found a pair of jeans, added a flirty tank top and slid her feet into her lowest sandals.

Hairdresser first, then shopping. She'd change her exterior. Catching one more glance of herself in the mirror, she reached for her bag and retrieved the keys to Elsa's Mini. The salon accepted walk-ins.

She wondered, briefly, what Michael would think. He liked her hair; she'd had always known that. Then she banished that thought. It wouldn't matter what he thought.

She told herself she wasn't doing this because she was angry with him. She had done this because Michael Westen would no longer be a consideration in how she lived her life. Too many of her life decisions had been based upon his life.

This insanity had to end.

#

#

#

_Salon_ was a generous name for the small shop with three chairs and two shampoo stations.

Fiona called yesterday when she spotted the Locks of Love logo in their yellow pages ad. Perfect. She would donate her ponytail to the organization that used human hair to make wigs for cancer patients.

Lou, the woman with whom Fiona had spoken yesterday, turned out to be the owner, stylist and colorist.

"Oh, sughar, why didn't ya'll just come in and let me cut that ponytail?"

Fi handed her the plastic bag with her rubber-banded tresses. "Because I wanted to do it myself. Can you fix what's left? It's a bit shorter than—"

Lightly touching her hair, Lou fussed. "Oh, mayaah. I'm thinkin' you need some stylin' and you could brightn' an lightn' it up a bit."

"Whatever you think." Usually, she was very particular about her hair, but not today. Not today.

Fiona quickly learned all about Lou from Lou. She'd moved to Key West from Mobile because her drunk-ass louse of a first husband ran off with her good for nothing youngest sister and they moved to California, good riddance. She decided to go the opposite direction and landed in Key West where she started her own business and met husband number two, Milton. Another truck driver.

"That man makes me feel loved," she said. "I got a real prize this time."

Fiona listened to her cheerful chatter and had to smile. When she saw the final result of Lou's work, Fiona was pleasantly surprised. Lou had snipped and straightened and gently highlighted and added a small fringe of soft bangs.

Fiona hardly recognized herself. It was just what she wanted.

"I like this," she told Lou. "Very much."

"Makes you look . . . hmm, French, I'd say."

"Ma grand-mère était française," Fiona said with a small smile.

"Huh?"

"I said my grandmother was French."

"Mine was all-American mutt." Lou said and they both laughed.

Fiona looked in the mirror again, and smoothed the hair near her ears. "Really, thank you. I like this."

"Oh, sughar, it'll take you a while, but you'll get used to it, and all that haihr'll grow back by the time that heart's all healed up."

"I didn't—"

Lou smiled empathetically. "That short cut was man-related. I've seen it beforh. And speakin' of, my man just hit the million mile mark. That's a real select club of drivin' fools. We're celebratin' down at Hogfish Bar and Grill tonight. Won'cah come and take that new do for a test drive? We're just a buncha old farts who like to drink and laugh a lot."

She had to smile. "Maybe I will."

Hair done. Shopping next.

#

#

#

Fiona decided her new look was . . . was . . . it was fine.

Lou had highlighted, trimmed and introduced her to hair gel which she politely rejected. Her hair might be as short as Madeline's, but she was drawing the line at gel. She was not going to look like her mother-in-law.

It had taken her an hour of clenching her teeth together, gulps of ice water and some measured breathing to quell the panicky reaction she'd engendered in herself with that comparative. By the time she returned to Elsa's house, though, she was calm. Better.

She'd joined Lou and Milton and a group of their friends, all of different ages and sizes, and liked the sense of camaraderie in the group. One of their younger friends, a retired stockbroker who had moved to the Keys a year ago was focusing all of his attentions on her, but Lou had an eagle's eye on the situation.

"Kimi, I want you to meet someone," she invited and started pulling at Fiona's arm.

That was when Fiona spotted the watcher.

She'd been aware of appreciative looks sent her way, even with her new conservative way of dressing. But there was something about the watcher that seemed so familiar, and then she knew why that was. He was Greyson Miller's younger brother.

It had been several years she had last seen Greyson's brother, so she was hoping he wouldn't figure things out. He was studying her with a smile and a quizzical expression on his face.

Her haircut obviously was providing a genuine disguise, and she hoped her new choices in clothing added another layer of protection. If not, she was armed, discreetly. She was wearing a soft pink floral print dress that fell to the middle of her calves. Like all of the new things she'd purchased, it had less structure, was less form-fitting, softer, more feminine. This change would also take some getting used to.

"Kimi, this is old coot is my neighbor, Ted Nicholas."

"Hello," he nodded.

"Nick, guess what she can do?" Lou said enthusiastically.

"Nice to meet you," Nick said.

"Nice to meet you, too."

Lou nudged Fiona who was clearly puzzled. "Say that thang, hon."

Fiona grinned. "What thang?"

"She speaks French, Nick. Isn't that what you said you needed? Someone who spoke French?"

"Why, yes. Parlez-vous français?"

"Oui," Fiona said.

"Great, I need a translator."

"Pourquoi avez-vous besoin d'un traducteur?"

He laughed. "_Parlez-vous français _exhausts the limit my French. When did you learn to speak the language? As a student?"

"Non, comme un enfant. Ma grand-mère ne parlait pas anglais." She said it with a smile, as she maintained a peripheral view of the bar where the watcher had moved. "My grandmother didn't speak English, so I learned from her when I was a child."

"I have a project I'm working on. I'm a biographer and I need some old, handwritten letters translated. I'll be honest. I can't afford to pay much, and I know old style cursive writing is hard to read."

Fiona noticed her watcher moving closer and he was now listening to their conversation. When he heard her ask Nicholas in French why he needed a translator, he changed his focus and ordered another drink before rejoining the man and woman he was sharing a table with.

"I've never done that kind of thing, but I'd be happy to translate your letters."

"Would you really?"

She spent the rest of the evening talking with Nick about his project and left the bar shortly after Greyson Miller's younger brother did. She watched carefully to see if she was being followed on the way back to Elsa's house, and she wasn't. But when she returned to Elsa's house, she found Jesse's phone and called.

When he didn't answer she left a message. "I'm missing you, honey. Are you coming down for a visit soon?"

#

#

#

Life in Miami without Michael or Fiona's had left a large hole in Madeline's heart. Her sister Jill had come to visit for the second time in 42 years.

On her first trip to Miami, she came to help Maddie after Nathan was born, but that ended in disaster.

Frank had been on one of his moods, and Jill had no patience with drunks or bullies and had told him so. The man pulled his fist back to express his displeasure with her remark and she picked up the nearest thing to defend herself. It was an empty cast iron skillet she used to block his punch.

Frank's knuckles ended up bloody, Maddie screamed, and Frank ordered Jill out of the house. Jill set the skillet down and told him she would be leaving two days later, as she'd planned. "I'm here to help your wife and my sister, and I'll leave when she's stronger," Jill said.

"Get her out of here," he'd ordered Maddie, and left, breaking the back door hinge, and roaring out of the driveway in need of a new muffler. The loud, abrupt noise woke a colicky Nate who Maddie had just rocked to sleep.

Maddie had pleaded with Jill to leave in the morning, and told her it'd be so much worse if she didn't.

When Jill saw little Michael sitting on his knees, a sweet, sturdy toddler with his father's coloring and mother's eyes, crouched and looking around the corner into the kitchen, she stopped, picked up the boy and returned him to his bed. Maddie followed and picked up her crying infant and sat down in the rocking chair to rock him to sleep.

Between Maddie's nerves, post-partum pains and Nate's colic, the baby wouldn't settle down, of course.

"I'll take him," Jill said. "You see to Michael."

Jill watched as her sister's oldest child seemed to be comforting his mother, patting her hand. That's when she softly suggested that life would be easier and better for all three of them if she just came home with her.

"It'll be safer, Maddie."

But nothing Jill could say would make Maddie want to leave her abusive husband. "When he gets like that, I'm worried he'll hurt you or one of these precious babies."

Maddie wouldn't go, and Jill could not understand why her sister was so committed to living in misery. "You know where I am. The door will always be open."

And it was. Jill was always ready to welcome her sister to her home, but Maddie never took advantage of it, and through the years, the sisters communicated less and less frequently until Nate was killed.

In the past months, they had been trying to fill in the gaps in each other's life with phone calls but when Madeline explained why she'd been away from her home for so long, Jill came to see her.

Jill had been at Madeline's for two weeks when her son called and wondered if she was ever coming home because his dad was missing her. She laughed and told Maddie that meant they had finished off the last of the food she'd prepared and left in the freezer for them.

"I'm going home and you're coming with me," Jill told her. "No arguments. Now call your friends. Tell them where you're going, and that I'm going to keep you for a while."

Sam and Jesse came to see the sisters take their leave.

"This will be easier, you know, while Michael and Fi are gone," she told Sam.

"Have either of you talked to Fi?" Maddie wondered.

"Just once, and just long enough to know she's fine," Jesse said.

"Is she really?"

"She sounded like herself, Maddie. What else can I say?"

"They'll be back, Maddie. Mike's got to do what he's got to do, and Fi just needs some breathing room. We'll keep track of her," Sam assured her.

"Still no word from Michael?"

"No, but that's not unusual for the type of stuff he's probably doing." Sam tried to sound reassuring, but Madeline wasn't willing to be reassured.

"The trip will do you good," Jesse suggested. "Go, have a good time, do the family thing. We'll be here when you get back."

And after nearly three months visiting with Jill and her son and husband in Savannah, Maddie wasn't sure she wanted to come home. She hadn't heard from either Fiona or Michael, and Sam and Jesse, though they called a couple of times a month, were involved with projects at SecuriCorp they couldn't talk about.

There really didn't seem to be much reason to rush back to Miami, and Savannah was lovely.

#

#

#

Sam set a bag of Chinese food cartons on the conference room table and took off his jacket and put it over the back of a chair. "Damn thing."

He still hadn't adjusted to the dress code for the corporate work environment, but Elsa seemed to like coordinating his shirts, ties and jackets.

"Food in the conference room, Sam? Really? And you didn't bring any for me?"

Sam opened the bag and set cartons and chopsticks in front of Jesse. "Ginger chicken and brown rice or grilled shrimp and sticky rice, take the one you want."

Jesse reached for the ginger chicken. "I can see Elsa's expanded your palate."

Sam patted his middle. "That's not all that's expanding."

"Told you, come to gym with me. Stay in shape."

"That used to be easier when we were running around with Mike. What'd Pearce say?"

"She has no idea where he's at or what he's doing, but she's still sorting through Olivia Riley's stuff. She wanted to know about Fi, too."

"When's the last time you talked to her?"

"About a week ago."

"Yeah, I called, too."

"Sam, I thought you weren't going to do that."

He closed the lid on the remaining rice and shrimp and put it in the carryout bag. "It's been more than three months, Jess. She still doesn't want to talk to me."

"I've been thinking I might make another trip there."

"Greyson's brother left Key West and hasn't been seen recently, or so say my cop buddies. Hey, when you go down again, take a picture, okay? It's gotta be weird, seeing her without hair."

"She didn't shave her head, Sam. She cut her hair and gave it to that organization that makes wigs for people who have chemo."

Sam cocked his head and looked at Jesse.

"Yeah, it's still weird seeing her without hair."

"Thought so. Still got that itch between your shoulders?"

"Yeah."

"You?"

"Yeah, and it's getting worse. Maybe you should go check on her."

Jesse grinned. "I've got the perfect excuse." He pointed chopsticks back toward his desk on the opposite side of his office. Got that package from Maddie today. There's was another package inside it—something Mike sent to Fi."

"Did you look at? Where was it mailed from?"

"He mailed it from Miami. It's kind of beat up. It looks like it got lost in the mail then got forwarded to Maddie's sister's address in Savannah. Maddie sent it here and told me to make sure Fi gets it."

"I bet she's not talking to Maddie, either. Yeah, you got go, Jess."

"Are you still keeping track of her?"

"Yeah."

Despite what he told Fi, both phones he gave her had some new high tech trackers inside. Even if she took them apart, there was nothing visible in the battery, memory card or camera areas to indicate it was a highly locatable phone.

Sam grinned.

"Thing is, she's not doing much. It looks like she spends a lot of time at the house. When she leaves she goes to the grocery store. Or to the Hogfish Bar and Grill. The longest trip she makes away from the house is to the library, and once in a while she goes to another restaurant. If someone's looking for Fiona Glenanne, then Kimberly Harrison isn't going to any of the same kinds of places Fiona would go. "

When Jesse's cell rang, he reached for it, glanced at the caller and raised an eyebrow. "This is Fi."

"Hey, lady, how you doing?

"Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure. No problem. Okay, will do. I'll be there in a few hours then."

Listening to the one-sided conversation, Sam waited for the explanation.

"She says she was just at a seafood market and there was some guy following her. He called her Fiona, and when she didn't respond, he approached and said 'don't I know you?' She told him he must have her confused with someone. Hey said, 'no you're Fiona.' She told him her name was Kimberly, and he followed her out of the market. She noticed a car was tailing her, but she said she lost him and got back to Elsa's okay."

"Yeah. Leave now."

Jesse put his empty container in the takeout bag and tied it shut. "Let's not over react, Sam."

"You think that's what I'm doing?"

Jesse turned and looked back at Sam. "No."

#

#

#

Jesse made the drive down the Overseas Highway to Mile Marker 5 in record time.

He pulled into the drive and parked his Porsche next to an older model Ford sedan.

A quick survey told him whoever was driving it was probably not a threat. The back seat was full of books and boxes of books. A wad of Florida lottery tickets were clipped to a sagging sun visor, and the window decals—I heart FLA, Keep Calm and Chomp On, Miami Heat and Florida State Fac/Sta—made him think whoever was here probably wasn't a threat.

"Kimi, you home?" There wasn't a doorbell so he rapped on the door.

The door suddenly opened and Fiona blinked up at him. "Jesse. Hi."

His eyes met hers, then he looked down. "Oh."

She wouldn't meet his gaze and when he looked inside the house, that's when he saw an older man standing behind her, smiling and obviously interested in his arrival.

"Uh," Jesse started. "You have company."

He walked into the house when Fi opened the door a bit wider to let him in.

Fiona didn't have a chance to introduce them because the older man stepped forward with a smile on his face. "I'm Nick. Kimi's been doing some translating for me. She's been very helpful."

"Ah, yeah," Jesse said. It seemed safer to let Fi take the lead on this one. "Nice to meet you."

She introduced him without explanation. "This is Jesse."

Nick smiled and held up a couple of CDs. "Thanks for these, hon. I'll be going now. You two probably have a lot to talk about. Nice meeting you, Jesse."

"Ah, yeah. You, too."

Nick smiled again on his way out the door and when he left, Fiona went behind him and locked it.

"He thinks," Jesse started to say.

"I noticed that." Fiona said. "That's probably a good thing. Do you want something to drink? I just made some tea."

"Uh, Fi . . . "

"Don't, Jesse. Just . . .don't."

"I think we should talk about this."

"I don't."

"Mike might like—"

"No."

"You're going . . ." he started but paused and changed directions. "Have you talked to Maddie?"

"I don't plan to."

Fi had yet to look at him squarely, so Jesse stepped around in front of her and gently held her shoulders between his hands as he had three months earlier before she left for the Keys. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to, but I know enough to know you will need help."

"I'll be fine."

"Fi . . . "

"I know." And then she leaned forward to rest her forehead on his chest for a moment.

Awkwardly, he patted her back. She pushed away a moment later and he let her go. When he heard the clink of ice cubes in a glass, he followed her into the kitchen.

She still wouldn't make eye contact. She set a glass of tea on the table for him and poured another one for herself.

He pulled out a chair so she could sit first. "It's going to be okay, Fi."

She sat and used both hands to clasp her glass, as if holding on to it would keep her upright. "I know. I'm . . . adjusting."

Jesse pulled out a chair next to her and sat down. "Tell me about this guy who knows who you really are."

"I don't know where he is."

Jesse reached over for her hand, and when she gave it over to him so easily, he squeezed it gently. "I don't, either, Fi."

.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

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Somewhere over miles and miles of nothing but flat grey sky and miles and miles of nothing but flat grey water, Michael resurrected an ill-mannered gun-trading character for the Xi operation.

Mr. Turner had been teasing his memory since the Xi briefing, just one of many forgotten thoughts, analogies and comparatives he'd put on hold until needed.

Michael needed Turner's attitude so he picked up the sunglasses in Tokyo while Chen went duty-free airport shopping for something his wife wanted.

"I won't be able to do this on the way back, not with a prisoner," he said quietly after he'd paid for his purchases.

Michael felt the force of Chen's fierce intention and agreed. "We'll make that happen."

"Here. Something for your girlfriend. My wife loves these things." He handed Michael one of several identical cellophane wrapped cards.

"Thanks." He slipped it into the inside pocket in his suit jacket without examination.

Michael last donned his Turner persona during the rescue op he was compelled to use to save Jesse after he'd burned him, courtesy of Vaughn. He figured Jesse would appreciate it.

Zhang Xi had something in common with Ming Kahn, the snitch Jesse handled when he was CIFA. Both terrorists were greedy bastards.

Once Jesse was burned, his protection was gone, and Kahn had come after him. The snitch was convinced Jesse had stolen two million of the money for his deal where he swapped info for cash, money that should have been transferred to a US bank as part of his deal. Jesse knew the Chinese intercepted the cash during transfer, but until Michael's Turner intervened, Kahn and his nasty lieutenant were committed to squeezing the missing dollars from Jesse's hide.

Michael and Sam had bet Kahn's greed could be used to take him down following a gun trade and it'd worked. What they didn't plan on was Kahn's get out of jail free card.

It made Michael ask Chen and Raines if Xi had that option. Stranger things had happened.

"Could that happen?" he wondered.

Chen's response was immediate. "Of course not!"

Raines' response was not as instantaneous.

"If we get Xi and then he gets let out of a cage because you made a deal somewhere," Michael ground out, "then our deal is over. Just so you know."

"Don't threaten, Michael."

"That's not a threat," he assured him with a look that would have made any rational person cringe.

They left Raines in Tokyo and proceeded to Saipan.

The remark earned Michael one of Raines' pain-in-the-ass comments, but it improved his relationship with Chen. Now they were partners committed to the same goal, instead of co-workers.

He watched out the window as plane dropped altitude and water and sky turned turn from grey to blue, and the verdant green of an island appeared. As Michael and Chen prepared to deplane, each took the mental deep breath to take the next step.

Michael slid on his new sunglasses.

Chen walked behind him, like a good interpreter.

Michael knew Turner would be a perfect fit in the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands—the modern Sodom and Gomorrah of the western Pacific, where thievery was admired and ruled most human interactions.

Apparently, not much had changed over the past five centuries, because when Magellan found himself on Marianas in 1521, he called them Las Islas de los Ladrones, the Islands of the Thieves.

Michael had studied his briefing materials on the long flight to Japan. Politics and corruption walked hand in hand here.

The Marianas were a unique frontier—an open door to entry to the mainland U.S. where, much like the northern and southern American borders, immigration controls did not really exist. Anyone from anywhere could come to the CNMI as long as they had an offer of employment from a local company, something easily procured.

The CIA and Homeland flagged Saipan as a center for laundering and dispersing al Qaeda funds for a decade. The distance from the island territory to continental America was so enormous, and it was a place so easily forgotten or overlooked that it'd become a widening funnel for undesirables from Pakistan, Afghanistan and the Philippines to pour into the local economy.

A hop, skip and jump later, they could be in Korea or, better, Japan or the Philippines, and then on to the U.S. It was legal and frightening in potential for the lack of oversight.

Michael had left the binder full of facts and alarming possibilities with Raines who would stay in Japan, consulting with officials on creating a covert intelligence agency to more accurately assess growing Chinese threat levels.

Once they arrived at the hotel, Chen relaxed slightly.

He noticed Michael looking at the furniture.

"Only place I've ever been where hotel furniture's bolted to the floor—not because guests steal it, but employees."

Quickly, they made sure the room was clear of listening devices.

"Don't drink the water," Chen warned him. "All the rainfall they get here and they still can't figure out how to have a potable water supply without desalinization."

"I know."

"Sorry," Chen muttered. "I just want this to go right."

"Yes," Michael agreed. "Who's our back up?"

"They should be on their way here," Chen said, "if they're doing their jobs." He smiled at the sound of a polite knock on the door.

"Good to see you again," Chen said when opened the door and spoke to a man who looked over Chen's shoulder, saw Michael and grinned.

Ethan Reed crossed the room and reached for Michael's extended hand as they each clapped the other's shoulders like brothers.

"Michael, how've you been? Never mind; I read up," Ethan said.

For the first time since Fiona walked away and he left Jesse and Sam standing on the tarmac, Michael relaxed.

"You're with Homeland now?" With Ethan as solid back-up, his outlook improved—dramatically. His team was elsewhere, but Ethan he could trust.

"I'm on loan, like you."

Both men smiled at each other; Ethan laughed. "We're good here. Let's leave."

A tall blonde woman stepped around Ethan and stuck out her hand. "Chris White. I'm with Homeland and on this op, I'm his better half."

Ethan mumbled something nearly under his breath.

Her hand was firm under soft skin, and felt just like it belonged to a woman who had a working knowledge of weapons and the physical skills to match.

Chen picked up on Ethan's non-remark and responded. "Is there a problem here? Because if there is, we're fixing this now."

"No problem, sir," they both responded at the same time.

"Reed, how do you know Westen?"

Ethan paused and Michael answered for him. "We worked an off-the-books op in Miami several years ago," Michael explained.

Ethan verified that with a nod. "Before I joined the agency."

Chen nodded. "Okay, well, you two get out of here and resume the honeymoon."

"Cozy cover," Michael commented.

Neither Ethan or Chris looked very happy about it.

As soon as they left, Chen turned to Michael. "What did you and Reed leave out of that explanation? I don't like surprises."

"You won't get one. We had the same CO in the Rangers; he sent Ethan to see me in Miami because he needed some help after his sister got mixed up with a scam artist and got hurt. We got the guy arrested by Miami-Dade PD."

"The two of you have something else in common. Tom Card."

Michael's gaze narrowed. "Card was Ethan's training officer?"

"Yeah, but trade notes after the op. Tomorrow we start making our presence known. Chris said they've located the men Xi has watching us."

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They were quite successful as unhappy honeymooners, possibly because they were quite unhappy being teamed together.

Ethan arrived in Tokyo with the understanding Chris White was a male.

She most definitely was not male, and she stuck out in a crowd looking like the gorgeous, ditzy cheerleader she portrayed. He'd worked with her long enough now to see she used her appearance to distract. Often all eyes were on her, not him.

Which had been useful.

He wasn't aware the honeymoon cover would be in place until a week prior to Chen's arrival. This far from the mainland, they were using their first names—Ethan and Chris—and the surname, Black, had been selected by Ms. White. It was just too cute, Ethan claimed. It was bad enough she was the superior officer on the op, but his remark didn't sit well with her.

When he learned they would be providing backup for Michael Westen and his Homeland partner who was Chris White's boss, things smoothed out. He'd read a succinct two-page report on Westen's current status after they arrived and destroyed it after Chris read it.

Tom Card a traitor, Michael Westen his executioner. He hadn't been able to swallow that yet but his previous experience with Westen had him re-examining his relationship with Card.

They were staying in the same hotel as Westen and Chen, who were on the floor above them. Since Chris spoke Chinese, Chamorro and Korean, she was able to converse with almost everyone around them, although they were minimizing interaction with others.

He'd asked her where she learned to speak so many languages; she didn't answer him.

They identified Zhang Xi's scouts two days before Westen and Chen arrived.

Watching them watch Westen and Chen's arrival they agreed they were operating without fear of discovery. Ethan was concerned, however, about another aspect of their task.

His wife in name only had the live ammunition; his only option was plastic.

He'd used plastic in practice situations and understood the ramifications of using it here, but it wasn't like crowd control. If the situation became life or death, he wanted live ammo. Two days later, he discovered plastic would be enough.

Ethan watched as Westen emerged from the hotel bar with Chen on his tail. He had to admire this Westen disguise—the obnoxious American and his humble translator.

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Michael's impression of Zhang Xi was that he was a little too sure of himself.

He nodded to the man while Chen greeted him in Chinese.

"It is good to meet a new friend," he said to Michael.

"It is." Michael answered and Chen translated.

"Where is my friend Card?"

"He is unable to be here."

"Is he dead?" Xi asked.

Michael smiled and after a moment, Xi laughed. "Prove to me he was your friend."

"How?"

He pondered that for a moment and then smiled. "Where did he like to keep his gambling money?"

If he hadn't spent so many years hanging on every word that Card had spoken, he wouldn't have known, and as such it was a guess, but it was an excellent guess.

"Gibraltar."

"And the rest?"

"The British Virgin Islands, the same as you."

Xi laughed then.

"Shall I transfer the funds to new accounts or . . . ?"

"Please." Michael replied through Chen as he slid a small piece of paper with an account number toward him but kept his fingers on it.

Xi quickly translated Michael's smile. "But you wish to change the price?"

"Did you not do well the last time? Card said you did."

Xi answered this time with only a smile.

"I," Michael said grandiosely, "took great risks for this."

"This is true. How do you wish to change our previous agreement?"

"Double, I think." Michael could hear Chen's unspoken reprimand, but this was his game, not Chen's.

"It is because your British friend wants more."

"Yes. So my friend shall have more."

Xi smiled. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you will keep it for yourself."

Michael held up his phone. "Shall we make our exchange?"

"Where is your product?"

"Here." Michael retrieved a large thumb drive from his shirt pocket, and passed it to Xi who then handed it to his assistant to verify the software would access the continental US power grid. If an enemy wanted to bring a nation to its knees by crippling its electric power infrastructure, the software worm would accomplish that.

Raines and Chen had acquired newly developed mirror-effect software that would mimic the operation; it'd had been developed by the same NASA engineer who originally located the theft of his work for sale on Xi's website.

The US system remained protected, but that would not be what Xi's investigator would see. When he nodded his approval to Xi, it was apparent the new software had accomplished its purpose.

That's when Xi, smiling and smug, pressed numbers on his cell phone to transfer the funds into the account established for this purpose. He watched his phone report the progress of the transfer the same as Michael watched on his phone. When the transaction was complete, Michael thanked him, and Xi stood to leave.

That was the moment that Chen reached across the table and looped a zip tie around Xi's wrist, pulling it taut. At the moment he told Xi he was under arrest, Michael mimicked the same move and took Xi's second wrist and performed the same move. Both men were bound and unable to move their wrists within seconds.

Xi's assistant attempted to knock his laptop off the table, but Michael caught it, and removed weapons from both men, as well as their cell phones.

Ethan appeared within seconds. He and Chris had taken care of both of Xi's watchers the moment Xi sat down at the table with Michael and Chen, and had left them bound, gagged and resting uncomfortably in the honeymoon suite with the Do Not Disturb sign in Chinese/Japanese/Korean hanging on the door.

"This way," Ethan indicated, and led them from the deserted poolside restaurant out a side gate to where Chris waited in a SUV to transport them to the airfield.

A military transport from Anderson AFB on Guam had arrived and would return them to the airbase to prep for the return flight to Oahu, the NSA base in Hawaii. Continuity of custody meant they Xi and his partner would be stripped of their clothing and possessions prior to the 8 hour flight. Four military security guards would join them, which would allow Chen, Westen, Reed and White to prepare their reports en route.

Used as an aircraft assembly plant during WWII, the underground bunker appropriately named The Hole was now a NSA operations center, and operated above ground, although the identification remained.

To say the NSA geeks were eager to get their hands on Xi's buddy's laptop and both of their cellphones for further investigation would understate the obvious.

Raines contacted them as they landed on Hawaii, and instructed Michael to wait for him so they could return to Arlington together.

"I still need an end date, Raines."

"We'll discuss it later, Michael."

That was not the answer Michael had been hoping for.

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Jesse took the stairs two at a time up the winding staircase in the lobby to his office on the second floor. He had one objective today: talk to Mike.

He found himself caught between two friends, two lovers, and he did not want to be in this spot. Before he left her, Fi had him choosing sides. That wasn't how he operated, but he told her what she wanted to hear.

It was the easy way out.

Placating Fi was one thing, but the situation had changed. The one thing that hadn't changed, the thing he and Sam saw exactly the same, was that they would do whatever they could to keep her safe until Mike got back.

After that, whatever happened was up to Mike and Fi—just the two of them, but damn, the man deserved to know what was happening. And so did Maddie.

Sam had talked to Mike before they were flown from MacDill back to Miami, but he hadn't.

It had taken some digging with an assist from Pearce, but he learned Mike had been involved in an operation half the world away in the Marianas, and had returned to Arlington with Raines. But that was more than two months ago now, and Dani had no idea where he might be.

The only thing she could tell him was that everything related to Olivia Riley had been pulled, boxed and shipped to Arlington six weeks ago. He was hoping Pearce knew how to get in touch with Raines or someone there who could tell him how to reach Mike.

Against his much better judgment, he'd left Fiona in the Keys and returned late last night. He wasn't surprised when he opened his office door to find Sam waiting. It was 6:45 a.m.

"You're here early." Jesse walked past him and pitched his keys on his desk. When he turned around, Sam handed him a lidded paper cup of coffee.

"I just got here." Sam took the lid off his own cup. "Don't tell me you left her there."

"Yeah. For a while."

"Did you figure out who was following her?"

"Just a guess, but it's got to be a gun runner of some kind. I got a description, and I talked to some of the people she's been hanging with, but . . ."

"Why didn't you just bring her back?"

Jesse looked at Sam with wry incredulity. "Yeah. Why didn't I?"

"Dammit." Sam shook his head. He understood, as Jesse did, that convincing Fi to do something she didn't want to do was nearly impossible, unless you were Mike. Even that was iffy.

Right now, Fi was doing things her way, and she would not discuss anything related to Mike, even if it was clearly obvious she should. Jesse hadn't decided who he'd share that news with . . . except Mike was at the top of the list. As he drove back to Miami, he tried to figure out what he could do. Nothing simple came to mind.

"Okay, okay," Sam muttered. "Did you at least get a picture of the hair cut?"

"That, I did."

Jesse pulled out his phone, scrolled through his small photo collection, tapped the image and turned his phone around so Sam could see it.

Sam shook his head. "She doesn't look like herself."

Jesse returned the phone to his shirt pocket. "She's done a good job of hiding in plain sight what with changing the hair and the clothes. She's, uh," he struggled to find right words. "Fluffy and girly now."

Sam laughed. "Fluffy and girly?"

"Yeah. I met some of the people she's been hanging with. She's probably okay . . . and you know Fi."

Sam shook his head. "Concealed carry _is_ an art form."

"Yup."

"She's still pissed at me?"

"Yup."

"What can I do to help you?"

"I thought I'd start by finding the guy who followed her, and try to figure out where Greyson Miller's youngest brother was last seen. She spotted him a couple of months ago. And, I got this."

Jesse handed him a small napkin with a hand drawn ink sketch of the man who had identified Fiona at the fish market.

"One of her new buds is a writer and an artist—old guy. I met him first thing. He was at the market when the guy approached Fi. He didn't like how he was following her around. I told him I had cop friends who could look into it, so he sat down and drew that."

Jesse turned and reached behind his desk and slid the small sketch into the scanner, and when it finished, he directed a copy to Sam's email. "It's in your in-box."

"All righty, then. I'll get to work. Let's keep our girl safe."

"Yes."

After Sam left his office, Jesse pulled out his phone, separated components and removed the mini data card that stored photo images. He inserted the card into a port and downloaded the images to a desktop file on his computer.

Before he returned the card to his phone, however, he took a moment to delete one of the images. It was one he was certain Fi was unaware he'd taken.

It had been near sunset and Fi had been standing at the edge of the restaurant's open air seating area talking to a small round woman who was sitting at a table next to a very large man. Lou and Milt.

He'd been taking photos of the people she knew; his intention had been to run background checks on the people she'd grown friendly with. He'd taken photos of nearly everyone she'd introduced him to, but this particular result was much, much more than he'd anticipated.

Natives and tourists tell each other about the spectacular sunsets in the Keys and, without realizing what he'd done, he'd captured a perfect sunset image.

Intense shades of orange, rose and gold light had waltzed with a soft breeze to create a muted outline of her small frame. Her dress had become nearly transparent in the ethereal light, revealing what seemed a halo image around a lovely woman with child. Two seconds later and the light changed, but for that wink of time, it'd been the perfect alignment of light and luck.

He didn't realize how beautiful the photo was until he turned around to check the image on his phone's camera.

Jesse wasn't keeping this particular image for himself. This belonged to Mike. Whatever was between the two of them—they'd have to work that out, but in his mind, a child changed everything.

It was inevitable that his view of their situation was personal.

Losing a parent and not knowing who your father was changed his perception of Fi's relationship with Mike into something which clearly had a right and a wrong, even though she had made it very clear this was her life, not Mike's, and her decision, not his.

"Fi, you need to tell—" he began, but she interrupted.

"He's not to know. Promise me that. I'm not letting this . . ." she'd paused then, searching for the words she wanted, before she looked up into his face and then locked her hand around his wrist. "This is no one's business but mine, Jesse. Understand?"

He nodded.

"And this is . . . my responsibility. Mine. You can't tell anyone. Promise me."

When he didn't reply, she scowled.

"A lot of people here already know."

"Promise me, Jesse."

"Yeah, Fi."

He couldn't begin to tell her why he wouldn't keep the promise he'd made. He'd probably keep part of it, and he wouldn't tell Sam or Maddie, but he owed Mike.

Memories that had never been far away returned in a flood when Olivia Riley opened the gates with her strident questions as she sought to destroy his loyalties in exchange for answers he'd spent more than a decade trying to find. He'd been tempted for about two seconds; then he realized if she could obtain information by claiming a national security issue, so could he.

As a child, he'd asked his mother about his father when he was old enough to understand. She'd caress his face, and smile with a sweet expression that was indelibly etched in his memory, and then she would kiss him and call him her sweet boy.

"He loves you," she'd say, and that would be all she would say. How she knew that, and who his father was remained a mystery, and somehow he came to believe it was locked in that file that would not be released.

It was the only thing that made sense. He had always wanted answers, and Riley had renewed his desire for them. Files were locked to hide something and someone. He still wanted to know who was being safeguarded and why.

It was probably a good thing Maddie was still staying with her sister. Maybe he could convince Fi to come back to Miami and stay in Maddie's house . . . damn.

It was simple. Fi was going to have a baby. She was going to need help. The math wasn't complicated. Sometime between Panama and being incarcerated at MacDill, and now the three months she'd spent in Key West . . . yeah, Fi was a few weeks away of becoming someone's mother.

He knew he couldn't leave her in Key West. She'd need to be protected even more now. She'd need a hospital. But how to get her back to Miami without her fighting him or running the opposite direction, that was the question.

As soon as he took care of Mike's business, he needed to take care of his own. But Mike came first.

Ten years. Six lawyers. Thirty-seven requests denied. Time for a new lawyer; time for request thirty-eight. But first, Kimi Harrison's lousy deadbeat boyfriend—the scumbag aka Jesse Roberts—had better figure something out, and soon.

When his phone chirped, it broke his worried contemplation. He saw who was calling, and smiled. "Hey, Pearce, I'm sorry I had to cancel the other night."

"You can make it up to me, but that's not why I'm calling. We have a problem. Specifically, Fiona has a problem. Where is she? Do you know?

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Fiona had agreed to meet Nick and his friend at the Cantina for fish tacos.

"Trust me," Nick advised, after the second time she declined the invitation. "You're going to want to do this. You told me you're looking for a new line of work, even if you won't tell me what the old one was and this, this . . . well, just come and find out, please. I predict you're going to be very interested."

He was right. Lunch with Nick and his friend from Tallahassee had been very productive. Illuminating. And almost too good to be true, which naturally fed Fiona's anxiety and wariness.

"Kimi—this is my friend Howard. We worked together for almost thirty years, and now that we're retired, we're still working together."

While Nick was still in the process of writing his Civil War ancestor's biography. Howard had completed the task. They both had been inspired by the work they'd produced at the University Press of Florida, the publishing arm of the state's eleven universities.

Both men had matching heads of white hair, and both were something of a Southern gentleman, so she had been enjoying their small flattering remarks. Soon after they ordered their meals, however, Howard became very anxious to speak to Fi about her reading.

"I love what you've done with Nick's letters. Did you do that in dry voice? I couldn't tell," he asked eagerly.

"Thank you," she said, "but I'm not sure what you're referring to."

"That was all you, no filters, no sound effects, just your voice, right? Like plain dry toast. Dry voice, that's what it's called. Is that what you did when you translated and recorded Nick's letters?"

Nick intervened. "Howard, slow down. You're scaring the poor lass. Slow down, man."

"Oh, my apologies, my dear. I am just so happy to find you, so happy."

Fi pushed herself away from the table slightly.

"Kimi, he's just ridiculously excitable," Nick explained. "What's he's trying to do is offer you a job reading his manuscript. And he's not doing it very well. You know? Books on tape? He's enchanted by your reading style and voice."

Fiona relaxed a little. "Well, thank you."

Nick hadn't slowed him down a bit.

"So what equipment do you use? How long did it take you to do Nick's letters? Did you enjoy that work? He says you're not a professional."

"He _really _likes your reading voice," Nick said.

She had to smile at Nick's exasperation with his over-eager friend.

Briefly, she explained the simple method she'd used to produce the CDs for Nick.

In reply, Howard handed her several pages of current market rates for voice talent. First hour rates were from $600 to $375. "Commercial work is much higher. You might want to make an audition tape," he said. "Not that I'd need one. You're a natural. I've listened to your delightful French to English translations you've done for Nick. Beautiful, beautiful work. Your voice is so clear, so pleasant. Mmm."

To Fiona, translating the letters for Nick and recording them as she read them seemed the easiest way to accomplish what he wanted. She'd been enchanted by the tender letters exchanged by lovers 150 years earlier. Nick's American ancestor had returned to Georgia to fight for the noble South during the Civil War, and he had left his wife and child in France, because he was concerned for their safety.

Perhaps she found the old story familiar, and perhaps this was a gift, a gift of a new way of life.

Because a new life was exactly what she was living with.

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Elsa poured a small amount of zinfandel in Sam's glass and then hers and watched as he worried. He was trying to hide it, but he couldn't.

They had her Star Island house to themselves now that her son had been able to redirect his desire for a military career to the Army's Special Forces. She had Sam to thank for that. Again. His influence had saved her son at least twice; she now understood exactly what he and Jesse had done for Evan when she'd asked for his help.

Dinner tonight consisted of grilled asparagus and tomatoes, a petite filet for each of them and a fresh green salad. They were spending more and more time at the house since he'd gone to work for SecuriCorp with Jesse, and they were enjoying more meals together at home instead of in restaurants.

The changes appealed to her. Enormously. She was finding that separating work from home was a pleasant surprise she'd never fully enjoyed before Sam.

"All right, Axe. What's wrong? This has gone on long enough."

He seemed a bit taken back by her observation, but grinned. "Thought I was hiding that better."

She leaned forward across the glass-topped table. "I know you. Now."

He took a sip of the wine, and placed his free hand on top of hers. "It's Fi. She's . . . she needs to come home."

"Why?"

"Because she does."

Elsa smiled. "Ah, it's your papa bear mode. You're worried about her, and you've all worked together so closely for so long, and with Mike gone, you're not interacting with each other the way you used to. And you don't want to be concerned, but you are. I don't think you can shut down that life and death level of caring quickly."

He studied her face for a moment and then smiled. "Good analysis."

Squeezing her hand, he seemed to shake off his mood.

She just smiled when he looked up and focused on her face.

"So . . . we're not having dessert again, right?"

"Not with dinner, no." And then she smiled again.

#

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Fiona greeted the knock at the front door with a porch light and a .38.

"Geese, Fi, relax." Jesse shouldered his way inside and flipped off the light and stared at the .38 until Fi lowered it. Dani Pearce was right behind him.

"Weren't you just here? It's 2 a.m. Not a lot of people knock that time of day."

"Be glad it's us instead of that guy who spotted you at the fish market. Come on, you're coming back to Miami where we can keep you out of trouble."

Dani wasn't quite prepared for this version of Fiona Glenanne, but now she understood Jesse's anxiety. He'd warned her that she'd changed her identity and image, but she hadn't really been prepared to see this very pregnant woman. He'd kept that part to himself.

"Arthur Meyers, MI6—is that name familiar?" she asked.

Fiona paled and wobbled a little bit, but Jesse moved quickly, took her arm and led her to an overstuffed couch then sat next to her.

Dani didn't make a comment about Fi's pregnancy, but proceeded with her explanation. "He stopped making rude requests to the State Department about your whereabouts. He's been informed you are a CIA asset, but that hasn't stopped him. Now he's hired people who are actively searching for you, and they're looking here. One of our informants for another case told us he found you and if he told Meyers, he'd get $50,000. You can't stay here, Fiona. The guy who followed you around at the fish market—that's our informant. Meyers doesn't care that you're a CIA asset, which means he's operating outside the system, and that can't be good."

Jesse put his arm around Fi's shoulders. "I know you don't want to do this, but we can't let anything happen to you. You know that, right?

She shook her head no. "I'll be fine here."

"That stubborn crap isn't working for me, Fi," Jesse said. "Come on. You're coming with us."

"I can put you in protective custody if need be," Dani said, smiling, "But I don't want to threaten you."

Jesse breathed a sigh of relief when Fi smiled at that. "But you will."

"Absolutely," Dani agreed.

By five a.m., it was as if Fi had never lived in Elsa's home. They had removed every trace of her presence, and were leaving the home in the same pristine condition as when she arrived.

Dani's Infiniti SUV held Fiona's small collection of possessions including a cat carrier and a cat that was not happy to be making the trip.

"And grab that trash bag. We're not leaving that," Jesse said.

"Only if you triple bag it," Dani replied.

"Oh, no," he muttered when he saw Dani with a cat carrier in hand. "The cat will be fine. Just leave that thing here."

"It's Elsa's cat, and we're not leaving it," Fi said above the protest yowl.

Dani agreed. "We're not leaving the cat."

"That thing's going to make noise all the way back to Miami."

Fi handed him a bag that had cat food and toys inside. Jesse turned and handed them to Dani, then held out his hand, palm up and wiggled his fingers.

"Keys, Pearce. I'm driving. Figure out how to silence the cat."

Fiona reached into the bag. "Food."

"Hmm. Works with men, too," Dani observed.

"Just get in the car," Jesse grumbled.

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Pearce's CIA safe house was a one-bedroom cottage near the hospital in a new gated community. Dani was satisfied the security measures in place were adequate. Jesse wasn't, but he couldn't have everything. At least Fiona was back in Miami. She was safer here than she was in the Keys.

On the trip back to Miami, Jesse had learned a lot, listening to Fi and Dani talk. He was surprised that Fi had found employment in a field totally unrelated to anything she had done before. Translating. Reading for books on tape. He couldn't have imagined that.

"Unfortunately, you're going to have to let the Kimi Harrison identity go," Dani advised. "It's known, and it's a way to find you now. But we can change that. You are an asset, and we agreed to protect you. We can talk details when we get back to Miami."

Dani was full of information and gave Fiona her cell phone numbers so she could contact her at her convenience.

By the time they helped get Fiona's things into the house, she was understandably exhausted.

Dani and Jesse left and had taken the cat with them, with Jesse promising to deliver the animal to Elsa in person, and Dani promising to keep Fiona's pregnancy a secret.

"How far along is she?" Dani asked as they pulled away from the house.

"I honestly don't know and I didn't ask. I saw her about three months ago and she looked fine, normal. Then last weekend, wow. What a change. It looks like it'll be soon, don't you think?"

"So you don't know if she's been to see a doctor?"

"Nope. And this thing about not telling Mike, I just can't deal with that. Why would she want to keep a kid a secret from Mike? It's his kid, too."

They traveled in silence for a long time before Dani told Jesse what she thought. "Maybe she doesn't want to use their child as a bargaining chip in their relationship."

He thought about that several minutes. "You think?"

Dani shrugged. "It makes sense to me."

A few minutes later, Jesse stopped at a light and turned to Dani. "I don't think kids should be a secret, Dani. I think that's the wrong kind of secret to keep."

Neither of them said a word until Jesse pulled in behind Sam's vehicle as he and Elsa were locking the front door of the house.

"Oh, good," she said, "we caught them before they left."

When Jesse pulled the cat carrier out of the rear of Dani's vehicle, Elsa smiled.

"Fiona's back," she said. "How did you manage that?"

Dani explained.

"Thanks a lot, Pearce," Sam said quietly. "I mean that."

"Sam," Jesse cautioned. "Fi still—"

"Doesn't want to see me. That's fine. I'm just glad she's back. See you at work?"

"Yeah, I need to go home and change."

This time when they got back in Dani's vehicle, Dani drove.

Jesse moved the passenger seat back to its extended position. "So, want some breakfast, Pearce?"

"Your place or mine?"

"I need a shower . . . and you left some stuff at my place . . . so . . . we could conserve water."

"You left some stuff at my place, too, and it's closer."

Jesse smiled. "It is, isn't it?"

#

#

#

Fiona sat cross legged in the middle of another bed.

It was a place to be. To sleep. Safer than where she'd been perhaps.

But it wasn't hers. It was a loan.

Someday, she wanted to have her own bed again. The one she'd left at the loft was in ashes as were her favorite pillows, duvet and sheets. What a waste.

She was hugging stuffed polar bear with a blue ribbon around its neck and a music box in its belly.

It had been displayed the window of small boutique on the Keys. She wandered in, drawn by the lace covered bassinette display and walked through the small shop, stopping to pick up the plush stuffed animal. She'd been pleasantly surprised to find it played Braham's Lullaby. At one time she and Claire had a music box that played the same lullaby. She did not resist taking it home with her. It made her feel happy, and it seemed like so long ago that she felt happy.

It had only been a few days ago since she purchased the bear.

A few days since she continued on to the seafood market where she'd been followed.

A few days ago since she'd used her common sense to call Jesse and tell him about the man who'd followed her and called her by name, and a few days ago since Jesse had left the package within the package for her.

It was a grubby brown, bubble wrap-lined envelope, rubber stamped and sticker-labeled as redirected mail. It had been to Miami and Savannah and then back to Miami before Jesse brought it to her. The outer package had been opened to reveal the smaller package inside which had been addressed to her and sent to Madeline's address then forwarded to Savannah. Of course she recognized Michael's handwriting.

He'd sent it from a Miami hotel.

She recognized the date. She had still been here then. Why couldn't he have been with her? She had to stop asking herself these questions.

She had not opened package yet. She was half afraid of what it might contain, but it was soft, and she had been wondering. Waiting. Extending anticipation.

But now she wanted to know. As soon as she opened it and saw the color of the shirt, she smiled. It was the only thing in the package.

She lifted it to her face and inhaled. _Oh, Michael. There you are. I miss you so much. _Burying her face in the crumpled fabric, she breathed in his scent. Quickly she pulled off the shirt she had been wearing to put this on, to wrap herself in his familiar scent.

Her fingers stilled when she found the spot where the button was missing, and she closed her eyes, remembering the moment when she first noticed. She felt her heart rate increase remembering the touch, the feel of his skin. Then she felt and heard the crumple of paper.

Oh, there, a piece of paper in the pocket. She pulled out the note, opened it and read it. _There is a button missing on this shirt. The hole in my heart feels like this. I love you, Fi._

"I love you, too, you bastard."

And then, wrapped in his shirt, she lay down and hugged herself and told herself she would not, could not cry, but tears leaked down her cheeks, even if her eyes were closed.

#

#

#

Sam had a new best friend.

It hit the scales around 25 pounds and walked on feet as heavy as lead bricks.

It seemed to delight in waking him up whenever it was hungry. Only him. It never bothered Elsa. No. It sat on her lap and purred.

The damned thing was hungry all the time.

He climbed out of bed, pulled on his boxers and clamped a hand around the beast. When Elsa told him it was a Maine Coon Cat, he politely suggested that they send it back to Maine.

She just laughed.

"Cats always pick out the person they know doesn't like them and try to make friends. You're lucky, Sam. He likes you."

Lucky was not the word Sam would have chosen.

By the time he reached the laundry room off the kitchen, he turned on a small light and reached for the bag of cat food and filled King Kong's bowl. Elsa had misnamed the beast. There was nothing kitty-like about this monster.

He stashed the cat food bag in a small plastic bin and snapped down the lid; otherwise the creature would just help himself.

Turning around, he was ready to turn off the light when something on the collar captured his attention. He knelt down to examine the collar and then reached to unbuckle it.

"Well, damn." The stitching had come loose and it looked like something was slipping out because it was. Sam picked it up and examined it and then shoved it back inside the collar. Damn.

He flipped off the light and reversed his course through the house. He'd left a .45 in the desk drawer, and retrieved it, then peeked through slats of the blinds to look out. He didn't see anyone, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

Refrigerator freezer or washing machine? That was the question. The fridge was closer. He opened the door and pitched the collar in there, and walked back through the house to look out the front door past the security gates.

He retrieved his phone and called Jesse.

"Hey, Sam," he answered.

"Jess, we got a problem. Someone wired the cat."

"What?"

"The cat had a collar. There's a tracker on it."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

#

#

#

Olivia Riley had been miserably silent in the six weeks following her arrest.

CIA agents asked her dozens of questions; she'd answered none. If someone told her what to do, she did it. But she didn't speak.

It was Michael Westen's job to change that.

Raines decided to leave her alone, to let her simmer in silence. To wonder what was ahead. She had been one of them, an officer of the law. She would know that what awaited wasn't pleasant.

While NSA techs in Oahu had been pulling data from Xi's assistant's laptop and their cellphones, Raines had all of Riley's files as well as Riley herself moved to a black prison—a highly secure, easily moved facility for the worst of the worst offenders—terrorists. It was USN ship off the coast of Virginia near Norfolk.

Had anyone in the ruling political class known of its purpose and proximity, a series of heads would have rolled, but in America there were acceptable offenses and inacceptable offenses. It only depended upon who committed them. It was the world Raines operated in, and because he understood where the black holes and pitfalls were located, he had successfully utilized them or avoided them for most of his career.

It was why he'd left Riley sitting in solitary silence for another 8 weeks.

He'd sent Michael on a clean-up op to Gibraltar. It was busywork; he justified it by telling Westen if Tom Card had secreted millions dollars outside of the country, he wanted them back in the US Treasury. Even if Card acquired them by gambling, he wanted them back.

He'd assigned Ethan Reed to Westen for the op, and they'd pulled it off in a unique fashion, with Westen posing as Card and Reed as his trainee. They left Gibraltar and proceeded to the Caymans and gathered up what might or might not have been the rest of Card's illegally gotten funds.

It hadn't been that difficult.

While Westen and Reed had been on Saipan, the Miami forensic techs who sifted through Card's office and apartments located a stash of encrypted passwords and user names. Apparently, one of the last accounts he'd accessed had been the Gibraltar account, which made tapping it easy. It was a busy-work job; he suspected Westen knew that, but Raines wasn't about to own up to it.

Not now, not when they were moving so much closer to the goal.

By the time Westen returned and Reed went to Homeland, again at Chen's request, Raines decided Riley had stewed long enough.

He hoped the black prison had softened that attitude she was so fond of putting on display. She would know the kind of people who were incarcerated there, and ultimately, how they would be dealt with during incarceration.

She was tough, but everyone had a breaking point. It was one of the things she had preached, had written about extensively and had taught.

Michael spent a day reviewing what they found in the files that had been taken from her office in Miami.

On the morning he was to begin questioning Riley, Raines had been summoned to meet with his boss, the Director of Intelligence.

"Don't let me down, Westen," Raines instructed.

"Have I ever?" he said as he walked away without waiting for reply.

#

#

#

Since her arrival on the ship, Riley had been living in primitive conditions, but actually the room was slightly larger than something two enlisted seamen would occupy.

The holding cell was dark; it was illuminated by one light bulb that burned 24 hours a day. The cot and pot were in the same corner; there was no sink. Food consisted of one meal a day, oatmeal and water delivered in late afternoon.

In the middle of the cell was a table with a solid steel bar to which she could be handcuffed or cable tied. Michael preferred cable ties for the discomfort factor, so he made the request to have her tied and waiting.

He walked in the room, took a look at the very defiant woman sitting at the table and shook his head.

"Whew. When was the last time you had a shower? Before they sent you here? You're little ripe, Riley."

Michael took the chair opposite the table and pushed it back, sat, then propped his feet on the edge of the table and tipped the chair back. "I'd say you're overly ripe, actually."

He pulled some cards out of his pocket and shuffled. "Let's see. Here we go. The Riley classics."

"_Persuasion for Covert Operatives_."

He read the title slowly and then put the card with the title of the book on the table, upside down.

"_Interrogation of Counterintelligence Agents: Techniques_."

The second card went down.

"_Human Manipulation._ I read that one, oh, a couple of years before I got burned. Yeah, good book."

The third card went down. He yawned then.

"_The Only Language—Body Language_. This was the first one, wasn't it?"

He slid the fourth card upside down on the pile.

"I saved the best for last. _Managing Spies—from Cells to NOCs_. You wrote that just a couple of years ago, didn't you? Of course they bought it, made everyone going through The Farm read it, since you were the walking paragon of intelligence assessment and interrogation. Not just any expert. _The_ expert. Do you know where these books are now? They're gone. They've been removed from The Farm. No one's allowed to use them, reference them or speak your name. Maybe if there weren't all those photos of you being led away in handcuffs."

Michael had been paying attention. He hadn't read her books, any of them, because he'd spent years observing people, watching how they interacted and acted, and Riley had a weak spot, in the same essential place most people did: self-respect.

Special ops training in interrogation—the receiving end—taught men and women how to deal with the methods being used to extract information. He knew Riley understood all of that, but he also knew there was more at play here.

A male prisoner would have been different, but she had been a professional woman, something of a jock, and removing her ability to be clean or exercise affected the psyche. Basic personal care items had not been made available to her, nor had she been allowed to bathe. She'd been monitored; she wouldn't die from scuzziness.

She'd gone from being a respected and admired leader, someone with authority, to a pariah. An outcast.

He knew exactly how that felt. He'd spent too many years chasing things he couldn't touch, trying to recover respectability. Fiona had been right—so much of it had been wasted energy. He knew now it wouldn't matter what he did for Raines, killing Card the way he had would always be a stain, both on his interior and exterior selves.

He couldn't change it, so he'd do what he could do to amend it. At least he had something and someone waiting. His mom. Fiona, if she'd still have him. Jess and Sam.

Riley was a loner with a very short list of friends, and her friends in the CIA and DEA who had already been interviewed extensively and were downplaying their relationships with her. No one wanted to be under suspicion for associating with her.

Her crime was indefensible. Telling a cartel who and where DEA agents were located was unpardonable. He'd killed Tom Card face to face. Her offense had agents being shot in the back.

She never would be able to regain the respect of others in their profession, but there was away for her to regain some self-respect on a personal level. He would encourage that and offer her a way out of some of that self-hatred.

"I know what you're doing, Westen," she said, her husky voice cracking but defiant.

"Of course you do. You wrote the books."

She pressed her lips together as if to keep her other words inside.

"You were always one step behind me, weren't you, Olivia? Even at the end. Do you know why you failed? Have you figured it out yet?"

"You arrogant sonofabitch."

"I don't like being called that." He kept his voice level, low and non-threatening.

"Bastard."

"If you're interested in speaking to me in a civil manner, we'll talk. Swear at me again, and I'm gone. You can rot here for all I care. Or you can listen to what I have to say. Choice is yours."

He moved his feet off the table, picked up the cards, one by one and put them back in his shirt pocket.

"What do you want, Westen?"

"Courtesy for a start. It's been lacking in our relationship."

Riley glanced down at her wrists, which were cable tied to the steel bar with broad bands of metal infused nylon.

"I'll send in the guard. If I cut those ties, you'll probably hurt me. And my mom doesn't like me getting hurt, and neither does my wife."

With that, he turned, knocked on the door for the guard to open it, and left the room.

A guard entered, cut the cable ties and left her there rubbing her wrists.

Michael watched what was happening on the video monitor in the room next door. He was relieved to see her drop her head in her hands and hold it.

Things were going well.

Except when he tripped himself and called Fiona his wife.

#

#

#

"Let's see it, Axe."

Sam dug the tracking device out of his shirt pocket and laid it on the desk. Dani looked at it, then handed it to one of the techs she'd asked to come over to her location.

Sam brought the thing to work early and had one of the SecuriCorp's forensics specialists check it but he sent him to talk to his friends in the CIA.

The tech used a jeweler's loupe to examine the tiny device. It was clearly military in nature, not the kind of thing a pet owner could order from an online retailer.

"It's Chinese, a fairly new model, and it's got a range of about two miles. We've only seen photos of these, so this is the first one I've seen in person. It's also GPS trackable, so if someone's looking for it, they'll know it stopped moving here," he said. "It's been disabled. You said this was on a cat collar?"

"Yes. Stitched inside."

"You don't use something this sophisticated to locate a cat," the tech said.

"No," Dani agreed. "You don't. Thanks for coming down."

As the tech left, Dani reached for the phone on her desk. "Yes, my request to relocate an asset? Is it approved? Never mind. I'll take care of it myself."

Dani replaced the phone and glanced at Sam. "I need to move Fiona, and Jesse isn't picking up his phone."

"That's because he was going upstairs to the boss' office as I was leaving."

"Then I'll need your help, but promise me one thing, Sam. Just help, don't talk to her, and you can yell at me all you want later, but we need to move Fiona now."

"What in the hell is wrong with Fi?" he asked as he followed Pearce out of the office and into the employee parking garage to her SUV.

Dani ignored him as she hit a speed dial number and called Fiona. She told her how Sam found the tracker on the cat and why they were coming to move her to another location.

"I know, I understand, but someone could have tracked you to your new location. We dropped you off at the house before we took the cat to Elsa. If it was a different kind of device I wouldn't do this, Fiona, but I'm not taking chances, so please get your stuff together. I'll take you to the safest place I can think of that's not government related. We'll go from there. And Fiona, Jesse is not coming with me, Sam is. I've got a short list of who I can trust here."

He watched as Dani listened and shook her head.

"I'm keeping you safe. Please just accept this. See you in twenty minutes." She clicked the phone off and slid it into the empty cup holder in the center console.

"Pearce, you'd better tell me what's going on."

"Nothing is going on."

"You're a really bad liar."

"I know." She glanced across to Sam. "She's pregnant."

"Aw, crap."

Twenty minutes later, Sam understood exactly how pregnant Fi was when she opened the door, stood back and let them pick up the bags she'd repacked to move them to Dani's vehicle.

Sam felt like he'd been kicked. And he deserved it. That meant when he and Fiona had been yelling at each other about Mike before she went to Elsa's house, she was pregnant.

No wonder she'd been so emotional, more than he'd seen her before, even earlier when she'd ended Anson's grip on Mike by turning herself into the Feds. Their last conversation, the argument he had with her, had bothered him for months. He'd hurt her and he hadn't wanted to. She and Mike had saved his life. He didn't want to make things worse, but he didn't know how to restore the friendship he'd damaged. He really did not know what to do or say.

Only Dani spoke. "This won't take long."

Neither Fiona nor Sam said a word, not even as Dani drove to Jesse's townhouse. They had all watched to see if they were being followed, and they were not.

The SecuriCorp complex was the most secure location Dani could quickly think of. She'd left a message on Jesse's phone already, alerting him to what she was doing.

The three people inside her vehicle spoke not one word to each other. It was a tense twenty minute drive.

Dani punched in the code to open the gate, then another to close it; she used an opener with a keypad to raise the garage door. She climbed out of her vehicle, and used a key to unlock the back door going into the house.

Neither Fiona nor Sam thought to ask her why she had such complete access to Jesse's place.

"Jesse's meeting with his supervisors, so as soon as he's done, he'll be here. We can figure out what to do next, Fiona, but for now, you'll be safe."

Dani stood at Jesse's back door and waited while Sam finished carrying in Fi's bags. He was delaying a bit, and put the food Fi brought with her in Jesse's refrigerator. Dani understood Sam's unspoken request and turned to leave.

"I'll call you later, Fiona."

Sam walked up to Fi and waited a moment. "I like the haircut," he said softly.

She raised her hand and combed her fingers through it. "I'm not sure I do, but it went to a good cause."

She'd been looking anywhere except at his face, and when she finally met his gaze, he closed the distance between them and carefully wrapped her in a warm hug and kissed her temple.

He relaxed when he felt her hug him in return, and after a couple of minutes, she pulled away and crossed her arms below her breasts and above her baby, as if she was holding herself together to keep from flying apart.

When she met his gaze and he hers, she couldn't speak.

"Take care of you, kid," he said at last, his voice faltering slightly.

Fiona bit her lip and nodded. "You, too, Sam," she whispered.

#

#

#

It was time to push things along a little faster.

The Xi operation ended; loose ends had been tied up, millions and millions of dollars regained, and all was moving forward, even if Raines' pessimism remained.

Jesse was back, and Sam Axe's matching skill set in research and evaluation complemented Jesse's abilities.

Col. Anders Porter made sure he knew where all the ducks were sitting, because things were about to get very interesting.

They had waited a long time for this, and it had been the unexpected gift from Michael Westen that had set the stage for a final battle.

Tom Card's death set the dominoes in motion, one toppling over another, then another until rows and rows were felled. But there were a couple of roadblocks that needed to be cleared away.

That was the risk in watching the three ring circus, waiting for Westen or Axe or Pearce or Jesse to combine what was known into a large center ring performance.

Yes. There were always roadblocks.

One of the old ones had nearly killed him.

#

#

#

Sam and Jesse had readjusted and found a working rhythm without Mike.

Within days after he'd joined Jesse working at SecuriCorp, Col. Porter arrived to introduce himself to Axe, former Delta Force commander to former SEAL team commander separated by half a generation and variations of work done in too many of the same places.

He'd suggested that he and Jesse take time to evaluate all their activities over last few months.

"In my experience," he'd told them, "it's best to finish one thing before you start something new. Put it on a personal level and re-evaluate where you've been. We have consulting contracts with Homeland that encompass this. If there's a rock left that needs to be turned over, find it, and then move on. Ease into things. There's plenty of hard work ahead."

After he'd left them, Sam turned to Jesse. "So this is how it goes in the civilian world? Take it easy?"

"Different, huh?"

"I'm ready to shut the door on what happened, not take another look."

"Are you really?" Jesse doubted Sam's assessment. "There are a couple of things that bug me. I want to move on, too, to feel normal . . ."

"What is that?" Sam wondered with a grin. "Do we do normal?"

Jesse laughed. "Not for the past few years. What say, you make a list of what we could have missed and I'll do the same and we'll compare?"

"Deal."

For the next few months, they handled several different types of security evaluations for private companies and made recommendations. Neither man had dealt with anything more serious for a couple of weeks when Jesse was asked to come to Col. Porter's office.

It was the morning after Sam had discovered the tracker on Elsa's cat. Both he and Sam were on their way to talk to Pearce and her forensics tech when Jesse was called to attend a meeting on the hallowed floor above the one they worked on.

"This might take a while," he said. "Don't wait for me. Go see Pearce."

#

#

#

Not many people who worked on Jesse's floor were asked to come the place where the company's founders and primary owners had offices and oversaw the three distinct areas SecuriCorp operated in—private security, government contracting and cyber intelligence. However, Jesse was summoned regularly.

As soon as he appeared in the colonel's assistant's outer office, the assistant picked up a silent phone when the light blinked. "Yes, sir."

Jesse looked up. Camera? Then he glanced down at the phone. Had to be. The colonel's assistant hadn't touched it.

"Please go in," the man instructed.

When he entered the office with its modern grey steel and black furnishings, Jesse was surprised by who was waiting with Porter—Mike.

Next to him was Raines, the envoy from the Director of National Intelligence, the highest ranking officer he'd spoken with while they had been held at MacDill. He'd heard the name but hadn't met him until he was twiddling his thumbs, hour after hour, behind bars.

Jesse had wanted to talk to Mike for the past two days, and here he was. And it looked like that would need to wait.

Jesse said hello Col. Porter and Gus Gustafson, SecuriCorp's vice president of human development, the man who was his first contact when he interviewed with the company after he left CIFA two years earlier. Raines acknowledged his presence with a nod.

"Mike—good to see you." He reached for his hand.

"Hey, Jess."

"Take a seat, son," Porter said.

The chairs circled a low glass table with an etching of a world map in the center; the seating area was adjacent to Col. Porter's desk. Jesse took the empty chair next to Mike.

"What's this about?" he wondered.

"CIFA and the work you were doing in the Fusion Center the day I burned you," Mike said.

Jesse and Mike exchanged a glance, but Raines interrupted before either could say more.

"I've got a better idea than us listening in while you two go over that. Why don't you go take care of this and come back? Westen, I need to talk to Gus and Anders about a contract," Raines said, "and we're due back in D.C. this afternoon, so let's make the most of our time."

After Jesse pulled the door shut behind Westen and himself, Raines turned to Porter. "If you keep calling him 'son,' he's going to figure it out, Anders."

"We all have our secrets, don't we, Raines?"

"I told you before," Gusfaston said, glancing between his former covert ops partner and his former CO, "the best thing you can do is let them do what they know how to do. Give Westen free rein. Let Axe and Jesse have as much breathing room as they need. You can't tear this team apart; if you do, they'll fail. Which means you'll fail, Raines, and I thought I taught you better than that."

Raines rose, stuck his hands in his pants pockets and walked away before he turned back. "I don't report to you anymore, Gus."

"True. Instead—"

Raines pointed a finger at Gus. "Don't go there."

Porter nodded. "Gentlemen, our objective is to succeed without creating crisis."

"You couldn't be more wrong," Raines said. "It will be a crisis."

"You can finesse that," Porter said.

"It strikes me that crisis and scandal are the only things the intelligence community seems to do well these days," Gus said.

"We got Xi."

"Westen and Chen got Xi," Porter corrected Raines, as he got up, walked his desk and retrieved a large flask and three silver shot glasses. He poured aged whiskey into each glass, a ritual these three had indulged in on previous occasions.

This was a new and different occasion. They promised each other the next time victory was so close they could smell it, they'd toast the success of the operation again.

"To Westen, Axe and Jesse," Porter said. "May they topple giants."

"And not get crushed themselves," Gus said.

"Like we did," Raines added.

"Do you think he suspects?" Gus asked. "Because we can change directions now, if we need to."

"No," Raines said. "I don't think so."

#

#

#

"It's good to see you, man."

"You, too, Jess. I need to know more about what you were working on when I burned you. I used your ID, your key code and downloaded what Vaughn wanted, but you and I never talked about what else you'd been working on at the time."

Michael wanted to get this out of the way first, because he wanted to talk to Jesse about Fiona. He could call later, if he needed to, but Raines would expect an answer on the return trip.

He was getting damned tired of performing as Raines required. Damned tired.

Jesse shrugged. "It's been a while, Mike. I was following a money trail, from Los Angeles to the UK to Nigeria to Djibouti. I thought it was connected to arms sales, but then I got arrested, lost track and had to make some adjustments."

"I'm sorry, Jess. I am."

"We already had this conversation, Mike."

"Yeah, we did, but I'm still sorry about that." He took a seat next to Jesse at the small conference table in his office. "Someone gave Vaughn a copy of your badge and keycode. Who would have had access? That's what I really need to know."

"You'll have to let me think about that for a while, okay? What are you looking into?"

"Have you heard about Zhang Xi's arrest?"

"You were on that? Of course you were. Was that what you were doing with Raines? Obviously you're not done or you wouldn't be here."

"Not Raines, another guy. John Chen with Homeland, and no, we're not finished. I know I saw Xi at least ten years ago in Djibouti; he was buying RPGs and land mines from Greyson Miller's father."

"Wait," Jesse said, concentrating, trying to remember. "Sam told me . . . he was making a joke, that it was his SEAL team that took down Miller in Afghanistan in '04. He said he got the dad, and you got the son here in Miami."

"Yeah, that was a job for Card so we could get Fi out of Allarod. There's one more Miller out there somewhere, too."

"About that, you should know—"

Mike's phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, and seconds later, Jesse's phone chirped.

"Hey, Sam—" Jesse started. "Okay, yeah. Mike's here. Yes. Now. For real. Now."

He glanced over to Mike who was shaking his head. "Yeah, Raines, I'll meet you in the lobby in five." He closed his phone.

"Before I go, Jess, tell me about Fi. How is she? Is she safe? Miller's people probably are looking for her, or anyone she used to business with."

Jesse knew there wasn't time for this . . .not for what he wanted to talk to Mike about.

"She knows she's not on her old buds' favorites list, so she's changed her looks and she even cut her hair."

Mike winced. "She did that once before."

"Yeah?"

"She was angry . . . and . . .never mind. "

Jesse got up and went to his desk and quickly pulled out a small black phone. "Hey, Mike—she's good. She's safe, she's, ah . . . here. Call her."

Mike clutched the small instrument in his hand like the gift it was.

"Fi's got a phone just like this, only this one is cloned to my phone, so you've got my numbers, Fi, your mom, Sam, Pearce."

Mike pulled out a sealed envelope from the breast pocket inside his jacket. "Could you give this to her?"

"I will. I promise. Today."

He nodded to Jesse. "Thanks for taking care of her."

Jesse pulled him close for a quick hug then stepped back. "We're all working at that. You take care, man. She needs you to come home. We all do."

Michael couldn't speak. He nodded and headed to the door. Jesse followed him out to where Raines and Gus waited in the lobby.

"Come on, Westen. I told you this was going to be a short trip," Raines said.

He followed Raines as he left the building and turned and held up a hand in farewell to Jesse.

"So what's the deal with you, Gus and the Colonel? I could have called Jesse instead of making a trip here. What's going on?"

The man didn't answer, he just kept walking toward the limo that would return them to the airport.

Damn. Michael hated red flags, and the one Raines was holding was flapping in near gale force wind.

#

#

#

By the time Michael and Raines left Miami on a commercial flight to D.C., Michael was taking a few moments for himself. He was completely aware of everything around him, but he'd turned inward to a comfortable place where he almost, almost felt like himself again.

It was the phone—the link, the lifeline to Fiona that was giving him peace.

Possessing it was calming his heart. He also suspected that if he called her, she might hang up. He'd be happy even if she yelled at him. Still, Jesse's gift meant more than he would know.

Raines was in the seat next to him, talking low, first on the phone, now to him. Michael was trying his best to ignore him. If Raines wouldn't answer a question he wanted answered, he could return the favor.

How did those three men know each other? There was more to this trip than the superficial explanation Raines provided.

Michael tilted the seat back and closed his eyes, and folded his hands over his jacket where Jesse's phone now rested in his inside jacket pocket.

"Westen, did you hear me?"

"Yeah."

"What'd I just say?"

"That I'm to finish interviewing Riley when we get back."

"You know what we need. How do you pla—"

"I'll get it done."

"You'd better."

"One of these days, that threat won't work, Raines."

#

#

#

Staying in Jesse's house was not going to work, Fiona decided.

The most likely reason it wouldn't work was because it appeared Dani Pearce was spending time here. A lot of time. Or enough time to leave her things in the Jesse's bedroom and bathroom.

There was a lacy bra drying on a towel bar the bathroom. Shoes she'd seen Dani wear recently sat next to a closet, and a lightweight taupe sweater with small taupe pearl buttons was folded and resting on the top of a dresser.

She wondered how long this had been going on, and the idea that they were together made her smile because she'd remembered how disgruntled he'd been when she was sent to Mumbai.

As Fi wandered through Jesse's home, she realized every plan she had made, except for one, in the past four months had been nullified even before she'd made them.

Somehow, she managed to miss the small changes occurring in her body. She couldn't be the only woman who had done this. Could she?

Her white hot temper, something that never bore a positive result, had blinded her to what was happening. Was she, indeed, _that stubborn_? Yes, she reluctantly admitted, she was.

Self-examination was always painful and humbling for her. Being honest about her failings was the first step in changing what happened when she'd failed. Like . . . with Sam.

Until today, she had not realized how much she missed him, and how much she regretted their argument. They would still be on opposite sides of that fence with Michael's name on it, but she should have called him after she first got to Elsa's house.

Which was something else she realized she needed to do: thank Elsa.

This type of introspection was clearly related to what she'd asked herself months ago. When had she ever made a good decision for herself? Maybe she should be asking . . .when had she ever made a good _first_ decision for herself?

She sensed sand was running out of her broken hour glass, that the opportunity to make an endless number of bad decisions had disappeared.

Her world was now someplace with a limited number of doors to be opened. Some were good, some terrible. She had been too careless with so many of her decisions, like the one that was keeping her here and unable to communicate with her family in Ireland without endangering them.

To make a poor decision now wouldn't just affect her, it would affect a child. Michael's child. Her child. She loved her family in Ireland, but this family, this child she waited for, she wanted to protect him or her with a ferocity that she'd only encountered when it came to protecting Michael.

When the magic started, everything changed.

That was the only suitable description for what was happening.

This was precious, this new life-magical, mystical and wonderful.

This. Changed. Everything.

She lay in bed and felt it. The flicker of a soft movement. The tiniest indication that she was not alone had been overwhelmingly powerful. A flutter, a kiss, a breath. New life. Something created by and of her and Michael, a child unique to them, and unique to the whole person that child would become, a gift they would get to hold in their hands for a short while.

Sarcasm or wit, the tools she so often used to hide and protect her true self, were useless in this moment—this was a miracle. Now, she understood.

The true tragedy was that Michael had missed this moment while he was away, keeping promises to someone else about something else.

This was an old story, one she'd watched happen, time and time again. And after he finished keeping those promises, he'd need to keep new ones, because he'd make more promises to keep someone safe, to fix something, to repair the damage he'd done in pursuit of something that righted a wrong or needed justice or retribution or helped someone who couldn't help themselves.

That was what he did, and who he was, but that was not all he was.

At first, she had selfishly determined he should not know of this. She made Jesse promise. She'd pushed him and made him swear he wouldn't tell Michael. Now, after thinking that over for a week, she knew that was wrong and unfair to Jesse.

She decided she couldn't put Michael in the position of choosing, even though earlier that was exactly what she wanted.

What she needed now was his free will, his need to be with her so that they could leave the dangerous lives they had led behind.

It was essential that he had to want this of his own free will, as she did.

She might not have planned this pregnancy, but she was embracing this gift, this beautiful surprise. What joy if he felt the same thing.

The trouble was her gift was exhausting her from the inside out.

Oh, why did she need to sleep so much? She found a sweatshirt that belonged to Jesse and took it with her to his couch. She fluffed the pillow and lay down, pulling the shirt over her shoulders in the overly air conditioned room.

She wondered if Michael would laugh at her if she told him it never occurred to her she could be pregnant.

She knew her body. She also knew stress, strenuous exercise, and a diet that had been anything but regular as well as her entirely normal and entirely erratic cycles played a role.

Of the many times they had forgotten to take care, her body had always provided a natural protection. But not the day she left prison to find Michael waiting, needing and in mourning for his brother. Not that day, and not that night. There was no room between them for anything but the exchange of comfort and thanksgiving. It was a small time of peace that they both so desperately needed. They held on to their precious time together with tenderness.

Those deeply private gifts to each other, the essence of what balanced them against the ugly things that surrounded them, was the blessing that had now, forever, changed her life.

But her heart was also filled with a sorrow that she struggled with, because that night of spirit and body had been the last time they had made love to each other. There were too many nights since then when she had found herself staring at the ceiling, wondering, was that the last time?

The sense of loss she experienced was soul deep when she realized it very easily could have been the last time for them. She hurt, the ache that thought produced was physical. It wrapped her chest and squeezed until she couldn't breathe.

And when that happened, she found herself thinking about her grandmother, her mother's mother, whom her da used to call Saint Brigid or Saint Grand-mère in less than a flattering manner.

That small sweet woman would smile and stroke her hair with her twisted, arthritic fingers and say, "Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopest all things, endureth all things."

Bear, believe, hope and endure. Could she do that?

She was about to find out.

#

#

#

Jesse found Fi napping on his couch, using one of his sweatshirts as a small blanket. When he saw her there, he stopped, pulled the envelope Mike had left him from his jacket and left it on the low table in front of the couch and then went to change his clothing.

Earlier this afternoon, the consultation on where to put Fiona had turned into an agitated discussion between himself, Dani, Sam and Elsa.

The factors under consideration were Fi's pregnancy, the location of the nearest hospital, the home's security system, and how she might live her life in seclusion until such time they would decide it was safe for her to be in the public.

No one consulted Fi.

What she thought about this wasn't at the top of anyone's list. It was Elsa's offer that again seemed the most logical. Living in Jesse's complex or Dani's or using another CIA safehouse location had been debated with no clear winner in sight.

"Sweetheart, how many houses do you own?" Sam wondered.

"In Miami?"

"Uh huh."

"Three."

"Why?"

"Sometimes, I needed to sleep without wondering . . . anyway, after he died, I kept the houses I liked. I didn't like Evan's house and I was angry with the brat for being a brat so I sold that. But he's good now," she smiled, "thanks to you."

It was decided. Fi would stay in Elsa's house with its top of the line security system and proximity to Mercy Hospital. Jesse would relocate her things and her to the house after work. Dani, Elsa and Sam would visit the house and make sure it had everything she'd need.

By the time Jesse changed and returned to the living room he found Fi awake, sitting up and reading the letter Mike left for her. She jammed the card back inside the envelope and threw it back down on the table.

"Where did you get that?" she asked him.

"Uh, from Mike."

She continued to stare at him.

"Today, Fi. He was here today. For a couple of hours. When Pearce and Sam were moving you, he was at SecuriCorp. He and Raines came to see us about—"

"Never mind."

Jesse found himself wanting to make this all right with her, to fix it, but then he realized that wouldn't happen. Best option, change the subject.

"So let's get your stuff. It turns out Elsa has another house here. The tracker on the cat? It's a military grade gizmo, so I have another suggestion for you. Let's leave your car in my garage. It's too noticeable. Let's get you something boring to drive."

"Like Sam's Cadillac?"

Jesse smiled. "Like that."

"I like my car."

"Fi—"

"It's okay, Jesse. I'm sorry I asked you to . . . I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

#

#

#

He'd been as successful as he'd hoped he would be. In exchange for the return of some self-respect, Olivia Riley had cooperated fully. He left the ship and was taken back to his hotel.

Before he wrote his final report, before he did anything else, he needed to hear her voice.

Right now, before another minute passed, he needed, desperately, to hear her voice.

He needed to separate himself from what he was doing and return to where everything he needed was embodied in one small woman.

He used Jesse's phone and called the first number he had listed as Fiona1.

There was no answer, and no voice mail option.

He tried the second number and got the same result.

It had been four months and five days and all he wanted was to hear her voice. He sat on the couch in the hotel room and tried again.

And again.

And again.

He wrote the report, gathered his materials and tried again.

He lay on the bed, stretched out and reached for the phone and called once more.

He'd turned off the bedside lamp and called again.

Both numbers.

And then once more in the morning.

And one final time.

He left the hotel in Norfolk, and walked to the corner where he'd spotted a FedEx outlet. He selected a box and stuffed a large sealed envelope inside. It contained the report he'd written on Riley, the video tapes of his meetings with her, and his wallet, with his driver's license and agency credit card as well as his agency assigned cell phone, and sent the box to Jesse's home. He'd used Jesse's phone one last time to add his phone number to the address box; FedEx didn't deliver without a phone number.

He turned off the phone, and pushed it into his pocket.

And then he walked away.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

#

#

#

A decision made in haste can backfire; almost as soon as he climbed the bus steps and took a seat, Michael found himself revisiting his final interview with Olivia Riley.

He was recalling his instructions to Nate about Anson. Had Nate followed them, it might not have ended with his death. But he knew his brother, and he knew Anson . . . and he'd allowed his personal objectives to blind him to potential flaws in his hurried instructions to his brother. He should have known better. He should have.

But too many parts and pieces to the problem he'd been working were suddenly illuminated as he absorbed Riley's whispered words and grasped the enormity of what he was about to do.

Still, had he missed something in that last session with her?

#

#

#

As he stepped into the observation room next to Riley's cell, Michael had nodded to the guard.

"Anything interesting?"

"Naw. She's pretty quiet. Knows where the camera is and turns away from it."

"Any requests?"

"More water. She wants to talk to you."

Michael reached over to the supply of water bottles on the table and grabbed one as well as one of the apples in a box of fruit.

"There's a cold one in the fridge," the guard nodding toward the small white box humming in the corner.

"This is fine. Restrain her with cuffs, please."

He waited and watched as both guards entered the cell and indicated for Riley to sit at the table.

"Is Westen here?" she asked.

The guard he had just spoken with was well trained and said nothing. He glanced at his back-up and handcuffed Riley to the steel bar bolted to the interview table which was bolted to the floor. Satisfied the cuffs were secure, they left.

Michael watched for another twenty minutes as Riley's agitation increased while he ate the apple. It wasn't obvious, but she was irritated to be sitting there, handcuffed and waiting. When the sound of metal softly clinking against metal increased, he smiled, pitched the apple core in a trash can under the video feeds and grabbed the warm bottle of water.

He opened it, took a sip and walked into Riley's cell, placing the bottle and a blue file folder on the table; inside, page after page, were blank sheets of paper. While he waited in the observation rom for her to grow impatient, he'd rumpled the edges of the paper, smoothing and straightening them to give the impression of a well-used, frequently consulted file. There ought to be some payback for the trick she'd used on Jesse.

"You asked to talk to me." He pulled the chair out from the table.

"Yes."

He sat down, and then pushed his seat away from the table, employing a faint expression indicating she was as ripe as she'd been the last time he was here. Again, he rested the heels of his shoes on the corner of the table and crossed one ankle over the other.

He knew she would be distracted by the scent of the apple and the water bottle. She'd expect his insolence. He watched as her gaze briefly rested on the file and the water.

"So, Riles, what have you got?"

Her gaze narrowed. She was expecting him to ask a specific question, so he offered none.

"You said," she began slowly, "I should be polite and listen to what you have to say. I'm ready to listen."

He shrugged. "And?"

"I'm ready to listen."

Michael frowned at Riley's change of voice. She was irritated and he made it clear he'd noticed. "What do you want to know?"

"I mean," she said hastily, softly, "what can I help you with?"

He let the energy in the room vibrate for a moment longer.

"You haven't talked to anyone for 18 or 20 weeks? That's a while. Why?"

She bit the inside of her lip, clasped her chained hands together and looked away, shaking her head. "I can't. No."

"No is not the magic word, Riley." He put his feet on the floor, stood, grabbed the file and the water bottle, walked to the door and knocked for the guard.

"Westen, please. Wait," she said quietly as the door opened. "Please."

He watched the guard for a moment, then waved him away and turned around. When the door closed, he leaned on it.

"Please wait? Why?"

She didn't respond.

He waited another moment.

"Riley, things have changed. What I want to know," he said taking a step closer to the table in the center of the room, "is how did Olivia Riley . . . agent . . . author . . . teacher . . . go from that life to this? How?"

She glared at him. "I know what you're doing."

"I should hope so." He turned away again and knocked on the door for the guard.

Her voice was rushed. "No, Westen. Please, no. I'll—I'll tell you what you want to know."

This time when the guard opened the door, Michael stepped completely out of the room before turning back.

She was looking at him, her eyes pleading. "Please, Westen. Just listen."

Michael frowned, indicated to the guard that he should leave him again, then stepped back into the room. The door closed behind him. "I'm not playing games, Riley."

Of course he was playing games, and one Riley should understand. His threat was real; but he was seeing something else now. She was afraid. Why?

Slapping the file on the table and placing the water bottle next to it, he pulled the chair back, and sat facing her, his arms crossed. "Go," he instructed.

"I needed money—a lot of it, to leave the country. I was going to South America or South Africa. I hadn't decided."

"As long as it was south?" he said dryly.

"As long as it was someplace . . ." she paused and looked directly at the camera in the room, then lowered her voice to a whisper, "where I would be safe."

A career of waiting, watching, solving puzzles, answering questions had left him with a legacy of awareness. He stood, moved to the end of the table and leaned over her, resting the palms of his hands on the metal table. He was also aware of the camera's placement and range, and knew his back and shoulders would block the view. "Safe from what?"

She looked up. "Who."

Irritation spread across his face, and then she whispered the name. He absorbed the implications and realized he needed to know more.

He'd lowered his voice. "Did you work with Tom Card?"

At first she seemed confused by the question then she must have realized his purpose. "Yes. That's where—"

Slowly, he straightened up as he processed probabilities and dangers and saw the murky past clear into definable shapes and forms. Riley was correct. She was in danger.

"The next CIA officer you see should be Raines."

"Westen?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm—"

He read the remorse but grinned. "Still not as good as I am. And I never read your books, Riley."

"You're vindictive . . ."

He turned back to the table, positioned himself to block the camera and glared down at her. "If I was vindictive, you'd be dead. You tied to kill my family, Riley. You could have played that differently. I protect what's mine."

With that he turned, knocked on the door and waited for the guard to open it. As they entered, he stepped next door.

While the two guards were removing Riley's handcuffs, he stopped the recording equipment and removed the small tape, then located the dated tape from his first interview session with her.

He had both tapes stuck in his coat pocket and was heading out the door when the guards returned.

"Any instructions, sir?"

"She gets a shower, clean clothes, more water. Wait for Raines. He'll tell you what to do when he gets here."

"Yes, sir."

#

#

#

It was a solid decision but walking away was still a gamble. Losing Nate had changed him; he knew he couldn't lose anyone else without losing his sanity.

But he couldn't _not_ do this, either.

Thankfully, this was one of Greyhound's newer busses, because the stench of former passengers was still minimal. Not only would he travel cheaply, he could pay in cash; most important, an ID was not required. He'd been ready to take a train until he realized he couldn't. Homeland changed the rules.

As he boarded, he'd noted emergency exit signs and took a seat near the rear on the left.

Riley would be fine, at least until Raines got to her. He was betting Raines had kept her new location a secret. He'd been scheduled to check in with Raines after the last interview; when he didn't, Raines would know something was wrong.

Or he'd know everything was going exactly as he'd planned.

Michael could barely accept that he'd played into Raines' plans again. But this last manipulation would be his final.

Walking away was a decision based on intuition and experience, the same combination that had him raising his weapon, aiming and ending Tom Card's life. He'd made that call and would have to live with it.

He'd have to live with this, too.

Allowing an enemy to believe he's safe for as long as possible—that was his objective. If he removed himself from Raines' authority and disappeared, it should be long enough for Raines to create another fairy tale, and up the ante on a false sense of security.

He realized now just how effective Raines had been at taking bits and pieces and building a reasonable, rational scenario for the story he was unfolding. It would be one based upon the unstable life of Michael Westen, burned spy, failed agent, friend and son.

Raines would know his mother had left Miami and Fiona had, too, presumably to get away from him. His friends were moving on with their lives. There was nothing but positives in the backstory Raines needed; he could play that how he wanted, but Michael knew Raines would need to rein in his doubters, and he'd have to do it quickly.

Michael understood Raines would identify him as a severely distressed agent. As he waited for the bus to fill, he could see that odd psych eval from Pearce, Siebels and Novak now made sense. It was a plausible story that Raines had assembled slowly and with great thought. He admired that as much as he loathed it.

In the pedantic construct of all things bureaucratic, Raines used what he knew to predict what Michael would do. In fairness, if he'd been standing in Raines' shoes, he would have done the same thing.

Now all the manipulative bastard had to do was sell it.

What he still didn't understand was the roles Raines, Col. Porter and Gus Gustafson played here, but he'd figure that out, too.

Long before Riley divulged the secret of the last half century, Michael had been worrying the problem. John Chen unknowingly had provided inspiration with his small gift. "My wife loves these things," he'd said.

Michael had been waiting to get on the plane in Hawaii when he realized he had yet to look inside the envelope he'd stuffed inside his jacket shortly after Chen handed it to him. The heavy rice paper appeared hand-illustrated, and he knew the fable would appeal to Fiona. He had heard the story years ago, but he'd forgotten it, possibly because he hadn't yet met Fi. Now, he wasn't sure he could ever forget it; it touched him deeply.

The red string of fate was a story of destiny and love between a man and a woman, but if he looked past the story of the lovers, and followed the thin red thread, he visualized the line stretching from the United States to China and Pakistan, to Egypt and Nigeria to Libya and France, to the UK and Ireland, before crossing the pond and jumping to Miami, Mexico and South America.

It wasn't even a new story. It was a drugs and guns map that linked places, times and people.

A small commotion interrupted his thought process and he glanced up as a woman who needed to use a walker boarded. She was being assisted down the aisle, and someone behind her was insisting the busline could store her walker, but she wasn't about to let it out of her sight.

"I'll keep it here, ma'am," Michael offered, when she took the seat on the opposite side of the aisle. "It won't be in anyone's way over here."

The man wearing the bus company logo on his jacket had other things to do. "Fine," he said as he turned around.

"Oh, thank you," the woman said, as she began removing a collection of over-stuffed tote bags from her shoulder so she could sit down. "I appreciate that so much. I wish I didn't still need that thing, but I do."

He didn't ask why someone her age—probably the same age as he was—needed a walker. As she struggled to get out of her coat, he reached to help her, and as he did, a small plastic encased teddy bear fell to the floor. He picked it up and handed it to her.

"Thank you, again, so much," she said. "I'm going to help my daughter in Baltimore. She just had a baby. This is for him."

"You're welcome," he said as he sat back in the seat and straightened the folded walker.

When he glanced in her direction again, he found her smiling at him. "Your mother raised a good son. I hope my daughter will do as well with her boy."

He nodded, embarrassed, and then looked away.

The bus had room for 50 or so passengers, but on this Saturday afternoon, it wasn't that busy. He guessed that would change as the bus traveled north. It would make six stops before Baltimore. That gave him eight hours to plan.

And he'd already broken a rule.

He'd gotten involved with a stranger, and now he was committed to making sure she would get to where she needed to go safely.

He smiled to himself and looked out the window as the bus started moving, and wondered what his mother was doing today.

#

#

#

"Let me talk to Westen," Raines demanded.

"We haven't seen him today, sir. We thought he was finished. He said you would be here next."

"What time did he leave?"

"About noon yesterday."

"What instructions did he leave for Riley?"

"To let her shower and give her as much water as she wanted, that's all."

"We're going to relocate her. No visitors. None for her. We'll be there soon."

"Yes, sir."

Raines had no more than ended that call when he was placing another.

"You were right. He's in the wind. He's been gone since noon yesterday."

#

#

#

Dropping off the grid when one needed to use the resources and flow it provided would be tricky.

Michael had withdrawn as much cash as he could from his personal account; he knew that'd be flagged quickly. He was counting on Tyler Gray for an assist, despite the fact the man was dead.

Depending on how Tom Card evaluated a trainee, he tailored his instructions to each individual. Or so he said. When he'd traded background information with Gray, that's when he decided Card had used nearly identical training methods for both of them.

He knew it could have just as easily been him, not Tyler Gray, who Card had killed without hesitation. Exchanging histories with Gray illuminated Michael's own experiences with Card. Now, he looked back on his youth, inexperience and eagerness to please and saw how easy he'd made it for Card to mold him into his personal soldier. That hadn't changed until after Ireland. After Fiona.

When Gray realized that Card only cared about what his trainees could do for him that was the moment the Gray-Westen relationship became a partnership. It was something his mother could not understand, not even after she saw Gray's remorse for killing Nate.

It had been within the day after Gray had met Madeline when Michael noticed Gray's anger spiked. He could identify the emotional transition as Gray saw himself moved from being a reliable, respected operator to Card's convenient tool.

"My career was toast the minute Card was assigned as my training officer. How'd you come through that, Westen?" he'd asked.

"I got re-directed early on," he explained quietly, "when I was sent to Ireland, and met her." He glanced to where Fiona was sitting between Sam and Jesse as they planned what turned out to be the final showdown with Card.

"I don't have anyone like that in my life," Gray said. "Not many women . . ."

"She's tired of it. We both are."

"Maybe when this is over," Gray offered. "You can get out. Together."

"Maybe."

"I just thought of something," Gray muttered, as he shook his head and looked off into space. "I need to relocate my safe house. It took me a year to set that up, between jobs. I even asked Card about . . ." His voice had trailed off then. "If I use it, he'll know right where to find me."

"Where is it?"

"Baltimore, next to an old grade school. It's as useless as my career is now."

He told Gray he believed as they worked together, they could both return to their lives, but they couldn't. Gray was dead, and so was Card.

Michael was relying on a hunch that no one inside the CIA knew where Gray's safe house was.

After Gray's death, his family would have been contacted. Riley or her superior officer would have ordered his personal effects and residence examined and the contents cataloged. Michael was betting Gray kept everything about his safe location in his head the way most operatives did.

He had a lot of research he needed to do, so he needed Gray's secret to stay a secret for as long as he needed to use it.

Two chattering teenagers took the seat directly in front of him. The woman whose walker he was tending, was dozing, he noticed. The bus had stopped on the east side of D.C. to take on more passengers. He moved the duffle bag from under his seat to the one next to him to discourage someone from sitting there then slouched down.

Until he understood more completely what was happening, the fundamentals of his craft would be his mantra: assessment, disguise, concealment, surveillance and covert communications.

And he'd need all the help he could get, because it was obvious he didn't have the same focus now he had six or seven years ago.

He mentally revisited the report he wrote after his final session with Riley, and hoped Jesse would figure it out; he'd need Sam's help and Pearce's, too.

As for Fiona, he needed her and everything about her.

#

#

#

"Jesse, have you talked to Michael?"

"Hey, babe. No, not since he was here. Why?"

"He's disappeared," she said. "Raines wants to know if he has contact with any of us."

"If he's disappeared, there's got to be a good reason."

"He's emptied one of his accounts and dropped out of sight."

"He did." It wasn't a question. Jesse sat back in his office chair. This news opened a door to a place Jesse wasn't sure Mike should be, not now.

"Do you know any reason why he might just disappear? Has Fiona talked to him? Could you talk to her?"

"I'll talk to Fi, but I'm not promising—"

"I understand. It'll be better if you or Sam talk to her rather than me."

"You're probably right on that."

"I'll see you later then."

"Yeah. Later."

He replaced the phone on the receiver and debated. Slowly, he pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket, pressed his speed dial number for Fi and waited for her to answer. When she didn't, he tried the other phone he'd given her. When she didn't answer that, either, he decided to go see her in person.

Fiona's way of dealing with her friends lately was to not speak to them. She kept her phone turned off and hadn't set up the voicemail on either phone.

He had yet to bring up the subject with her, but she needed to keep at least one of the phones on for safety's sake, so today might be a good time to have that chat.

He met Sam outside his office as he was leaving. "Hey, call Pearce. She's got news about Mike. I'm going to see Fi."

"Sure. Everything okay?"

"Probably not."

#

#

#

When Elsa learned Fiona had not yet been to a doctor, she made an appointment through her personal physician and took her to see the man.

Sam and Jesse had been reluctant to ask, much less insist on the practical, but Elsa had no problem with taking matters into her own hands. She had learned long ago that with large sums of cash, many things were possible. Privacy, in particular.

One brief tense moment had passed between her and Fiona soon after she arrived, unannounced, at the house where Fiona was staying.

"This is a surprise," she said, welcoming her inside.

"And it will be. Get your things. I've arranged for you to see my doctor."

"Oh, no," Fiona said. "No. I can care of this myself."

"I'm sure you can. Consider me the CIA of prenatal care—if I understand what I've heard Sam and Jesse and Agent Pearce discuss, keeping your location a secret is important to your safety, so you're going to see my personal physician. How far along are you? Six months? Seven?"

"I'm grateful for your hospitality, Elsa, and the use of this house, but I can't accept—"

"You're welcome, but I'm not doing this for you. This is for Michael."

Elsa was bemused as an entire conversation began and ended in silent, impassioned expressions that appeared on Fiona's face.

"All right. I'll get my purse."

#

#

#

Jesse was prepared to knock on the door just as it opened and Elsa stepped out. "Oh, hello," she said as she smiled and greeted him. "Say hi to Sam when you see him—I'm just leaving. I'm late for a meeting."

"Hey, Fi," he said, as he stepped into the house.

"Jesse . . . ?"

"Where's your phone, hon? I tried to call but you haven't turned it on."

"I know. I don't want to talk to anyone."

He ignored that. "Show me your phones—both of them. Please."

"Why?"

"Because I need to check something."

He followed her through the living area to the small dining room where she opened a drawer in a buffet table. Both of the phones he'd given her were inside.

Jesse took them from her and depressed the start keys, and waited as the phones powered up. A minute later he held them side by side and looked at the incoming calls lists. He shook his head and turned them around to show Fi.

"You need to keep at least one phone on. I know you don't want us bugging you, but Mike was trying to call you before he disappeared. This number here? That's from the phone I gave him. He's dropped out of sight and no one has had contact with him in 48 hours. Raines is looking for him."

Jesse watched as she visibly paled.

"Why would he disappear?" she demanded.

"I don't know. Here, let's sit down, okay?"

"I'm fine." Clearly, she wasn't, but she grasped the back of a chair and steadied herself with trembling arms.

"Don't . . . just . . ." Jess sighed before asking what he wanted. "That envelope he wanted me to give to you—what was it?"

"It's . . . it's just something personal, Jesse."

"Is it too personal for me to see? I'm sorry, Fi," he said. "I'm trying to figure out why he disappeared."

"I told you. It's personal." But, she turned, walked across the room and withdrew the envelope from her purse, then handed it to him before she turned to sit on the couch.

He studied it for a few seconds before removing a booklet from the envelope.

It was a beautifully printed rendering of the Eastern Asian legend, the Red String of Fate. Several pages told the story of two people, lovers forever bound by an invisible, unbreakable red string that stretches and tangles but ties them together for eternity.

On the last page, there was an illustration of an Asian man and woman facing each other, their pinky fingers were tied with a single red string with a length of it pooling on the floor between them. He'd signed it, _I love you, Fiona._

Jesse carefully put the booklet back inside the envelope and returned it to her.

"I'm sorry, Fi," he said with a small smile. "He was . . . anxious to give it to you. Thank you. I know this is personal, but I don't think it's a secret."

When she looked up, there were a matching pair of tears in the corner of her eyes.

"Aw, Fi. I'm sorry." He sat down next to her and she leaned against him.

One of the phones was still in her hand. "I'll keep the phone on, okay?"

"Okay."

#

#

#

"Mr. Porter?"

"You have a package for me?" Jesse handed him the SecuriCorp post-it note that had been stuck to his office door when he'd returned.

He pulled it off his door and went to the corporation's central mail facilities at the back of the main building. All incoming mail and parcels were inspected and cleared before being delivered.

All parcels received additional scrutiny and required the recipient's signature.

"FedEx delivered it after you left the office yesterday afternoon. It's been cleared."

The clerk handed him the medium sized box, then pushed a clipboard toward him and pointed to where he was to sign. "I'm sorry we didn't get this to you sooner, but we've got two people out with the flu."

"No problem, none at all. Thanks."

Jesse took the box, examined the label and frowned at the sender information. Turner in Norfolk? That didn't sound like a current client.

He set the box on the credenza behind his desk when he returned to his office, and called Sam, who wasn't in his office. Then, he called his cell.

"Where you at?"

"With a client."

"Let me know when you get back, okay?"

"Will do."

#

#

#

Sam wasn't far away, just one floor up.

He was sitting in Anders Porter's office when Jesse called.

As soon as Jesse had gone to see Fi earlier, Sam called Pearce and learned Mike had disappeared and Raines was looking for him.

He figured Jesse had tried to call Fi but, as usual, her phone was off.

Sam knew the house had a landline. He'd need to remember to ask Elsa what that number was. He wanted to talk to Fi, too, but he'd been debating how to start that conversation, that was, after he apologized.

Then he sat there in his rather luxurious office environment, looking around, assessing what was known and what was not known.

On one hand he had Mike disappearing. Fi was being followed by someone in MI6 or one of the Miller relatives who had belled Elsa's cat with a sophisticated, Chinese-made tracker.

Mike's last assignment was to assist Homeland bring in a Chinese businessman who was making headlines for the vast range of his thefts.

Were those three things related? Could be, he decided.

There was the Mike and Fi thing—the baby. Jesse hadn't said much, either. But both of them were stepping back, so far. Mike was going to be a daddy and he didn't even know it, and neither did Maddie.

Somehow, that didn't seem fair, but like Elsa, he'd decided all he could do was provide assistance as needed. For now, at least.

Then there was this cushy SecuriCorp setup he'd fallen into.

He'd been distracted by Elsa—not that it was a bad thing, but finding this job had been too easy.

It was good to be employed, and so far no one had asked him to do much of anything to deserve the fancy check he was receiving. Yeah, he and Jess made a good team—after they'd stopped actively disliking each other several years earlier. He'd been the old guy and Jess had been Billy the Kid. Now, they were brothers who occasionally squabbled.

SecuriCorp was an interesting organization, not only for its history, but for the contracts it chose to take and those it chose not to take. This environment was about brains, not brawn, even though most of the active consultants were fit and kept their skills honed, like an unwritten job requirement. There were always SecuriCorp faces at the gun range when he and Jesse went.

Jesse had worked for SecuriCorp for the better part of two years before they all got caught up with Mike's Anson Fullerton crap and Fi going to jail.

Jesse had walked away from his job for most of six months before he walked back in. He didn't discount his friend's skills or abilities, but it was slightly curious that the first thing Jess did after he was back was to hire him.

Before Sam quite realized what he was doing, he was standing, uninvited—a SecuriCorp no-no—inside Anders Porter's assistant's office.

As protective as he was, Sam was certain the man must have served as Porter's aide de camp at one time. He was preparing to escort Sam out of his office when the light on his phone line blinked.

He took the call and nodded. "Go on in."

It was clear that wasn't what Porter's aide preferred.

"Ah, Axe," Porter greeted him. "How are you today?"

"I'm just ducky. How about you?"

Porter laughed. "Peachy."

At least Axe smiled at that.

Anders indicated Sam should take a seat, but he ignored the invitation. "What's on your mind, Commander?"

"Your son."

Anders took a deep breath and put one hand over his heart. "When did you figure that out?"

"A while ago," Sam said, keeping an eye on the older man. "His hands are shaped like yours. That's about all you have in common."

"We both loved his mother. We have that in common. He looks like her brothers." Anders fumbled to pull a small purple bottle from his desk drawer. Sam recognized the medication and quickly reached to help him open the bottle, then watched as he tucked the tablet under his tongue and waited for a moment while the nitroglycerin did its job.

"Need some water?"

"Not necessary."

"Are you stable?"

Gustafson opened the office door, glared at Sam and walked over to see how Anders was doing. "You all right?"

"Fine. I'm fine, Gus. Let it be."

They turned to find Sam studying the ceiling. "Whole damn place is wired, isn't it?"

Neither Anders nor Gus responded.

"I bet Jesse doesn't know that, either. What game are you guys playing?"

"It's not a game," Anders said. "It's never been a game."

"Why did you abandon your son?"

Gus looked like he was going to say something but Anders spoke.

"After his mother was killed, he got lost in the maze of Social Services. At first it made me . . . then I realized it was the only way I could keep him safe. They killed his mother and her brothers on the same night. Then they took out Raines' wife and child, and shortly after that, they arranged for Gus' wife and three kids to die in an accident on a mountain road. _It has never been a game_."

"And tried to kill Anders, too," Gus added in a low voice.

"Who is _they_?" Sam asked.

Gus and Anders exchanged a glance.

"You knew this was coming, Gus. It's what we wanted," Anders said. "What I wanted."

"Walter Jacob Ramsey," Gus said.

"Raines' boss?" Sam said, an incredulous expression on his face.

"Our enemy."

"The last lord of war."

"Viktor Bout is in prison in Marion, Illinois," Sam said.

"They're kin," Gus said, "of the worst kind."

"Ramsey has operated in secrecy for decades," Anders explained.

"You're kidding, right?" Sam asked.

"They're not related by blood, only by crimes," Anders said.

"Crap," Sam muttered and sat down in a chair. "Did you and Raines set up Mike Westen to get burned? Or was that Ramsey? No, Raines did, didn't he?"

"Ramsey put a target on Westen a long time ago," Gus said. "We think he knows something he may not realize—and it could be enough to take Ramsey down. We believe Ramsey is behind everything that happened to Westen since he got burned, and that's how Jesse got drug into this. He hasn't connected Anders to Jesse yet. We don't want him to."

"Westen's disappeared. He emptied his personal account and has been missing for 48 hours now. We need his help," Anders said. "And we need you and Jesse and Glenanne to help, too."

"You'd better count Fi out," Sam said. "She's pregnant. And you'd better come clean with Jesse. I'm not promising you anything until that happens."

Sam left the office and slammed the door as he left. It wasn't much of a protest, but it was the best he could manage.

Having the Director of Intelligence Services as an enemy endangered every person he cared about or loved. His entire family. This was unacceptable.

But this was so much more—the country was at risk.

The fox was truly guarding the henhouse. The idea, the threat, was so enormous, it made him shiver.

As he stepped out into the sunshine of the SecuriCorp parking area, he paused, looked up and spoke. "My God."

#

#

#

Gray's safe house was on the top floor of an older residential hotel that has been converted into long term apartments. The fire escape on the floor below provided access to the rear where he'd located a key that worked on both the front door and the rear.

Inside, he'd found canned foods and other supplies in a pantry; a laptop and internet access, a locked drawer with handguns and ammunition, and a safe which he'd managed to access after several attempts. It held some cash, a stash of IDs with photos, one of which had the potential to be of use if he could alter it and substitute his photo.

The mail slot at the front provided a paper trail to a local bank; it appeared he'd set up auto-pays on basic services from an account that dwindled month by month. Couch, table and chairs, double bed, a television and radio made it an entirely functional safe house.

From the level of dust in the place, Gray's apartment had been safe and unused for a long time.

He'd only been in the apartment for a few hours when he suddenly stopped.

There was something he had to do.

He'd turned off Jesse's phone, but not until he noted the numbers he had for Fiona. He decided his safest bet to call her would be using a prepaid cell. Along with a stash of yogurt, he'd picked up two prepaid mobile phones a corner drug store.

He just needed to hear her voice.

That would see him through, just her voice.

This ritual had been frustrating the last time he'd attempted it. She had obviously turned off the phones. He closed his eyes and said a prayer that she would answer this time.

It was something new, this idea of him talking to God, of asking God to take care of Fiona. He hadn't really been conversant with God as an adult, but for some reason he could not define, he needed God to protect her, to keep her safe, now more than ever.

Slowly, he tapped in the numbers. When she answered, when he finally heard her voice, he didn't know what to say.

"Hello?"

In the background he heard a television maybe, while the sound of blood rushing through his veins roared so loudly he couldn't speak.

"Hello?

"Hello?

"I can hear you breathing," she said softly.

"Michael?

"Is this you?

"This is you, isn't it?"

He heard her voice, savored it, hugged it to his heart, but he could not speak.

"You come back to me.

"Promise me.

"When you are done, you come back to me."

He still couldn't speak.

"You have to tell me. "

The silence stretched for much too long a time.

Finally, when he could speak, his voice was low and trembling. "I'll try, Fi."

"Try hard, Michael. We need you."

Then ever so softly, so quietly, the call ended as Fiona depressed the END key.

#

#

#

The invitation was for six, but Jesse arrived at Col. Porter's home at 5:50. Early was always better with the boss, wasn't it?

It was a comfortable, small home. He'd expected it to be in a much different neighborhood than the middle to lower range priced family friendly homes in the area. As one of the owners of SecuriCorp, the colonel could certainly afford upscale housing.

He'd tried calling Sam earlier, but he was pulling a Fi and not answering his phone. He told Pearce he'd been asked to go to his boss' home, but he'd meet up with her after for dinner at her place. She promised she'd cook and he'd teased her that he thought her only talents mimicked Maddie's take out ordering skills.

When the door opened, he was surprised to see the colonel looking so . . . old.

At work, he was always dressed in a suit. Very sharp. Crisp as only a former military man can be. Very professional. Here, in his home, he wore chinos and a plaid shirt and sandals.

Hmm. He'd never expected to see his boss in sandals, even if it was 90 degrees outside.

He smiled. "Come in, my boy. Come in." He opened the door wider.

"Good evening, sir."

"Thanks for coming, Jesse. I've been trying to figure out how to do this, but . . . Sam helped. Come on back. There's something here I want to show you."

"What did Sam help with?" Jesse wondered as he followed the older man down a hallway to where he opened the door to a room lit by late afternoon sun.

"Sam helped me . . . tell you about this."

Jesse stepped in the room, looked around and stopped shock still.

There was a black and white portrait of his exotically beautiful mother as he had never seen her—she was smiling, a wreath of tiny flowers circled a mass of curls encircling her head. She was dressed in white and her dress was covered in what looked to be embroidered daisies. And she was pregnant. Very, very pregnant.

"No."

He turned and looked another direction.

The rocking chair painted white had a straight back and arms. On one arm of the chair, a child had drawn two hearts with a red pen. One was on top of another and the words _Me_ and _Mama _were awkwardly printed inside the hearts.

He had been the child.

He walked slowly into the room and realized it held many more things. A beat up bike, a baseball glove that needed rethreading, a pair of blue Keds with scraped toes.

"What is this?" he finally said. "Who are you?" And even as Jesse asked the question, he knew.

He walked up to the framed photo of his mother, so much younger in this photo than in the tattered version he had carried with him for years. He lifted it off the wall and cradled it in both hands.

"She lost that baby—a girl, about five years before you were born."

Jesse turned around. He dwarfed the colonel. "So who do I look like? It's not you."

"Your uncles, Rob and Jim. They were killed the same night Elizabeth was."

"Where were you?" Jesse demanded, looking down on the man. "When she was killed? _Where were you?_ Why was she even working in convenience store? Why weren't you taking care of her?"

"I was in a hospital in Israel. By the time I could get home, you'd disappeared into the social services system and I decided it was a hell of a lot safer for you to stay there than with me. That was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"No."

"Well, tonight it's all you have to say." Jesse took the picture with him and left the colonel's house. His father's house. He had to.

Anders Porter sat down on the bed in the room. He wondered if Jesse would remember being in this house when he was three and four years old. He hoped he'd remember. He reached for his phone and called Axe, then reached for the nitroglycerin again.

"Go," Axe answered.

"He knows now. Why don't you call an ambulance for me, Axe. I'm feeling light headed again."

Sam asked the address and complied. As soon as he verified where the ambulance was taking Porter, he left the office and met him at the ER. Gus was already there.

#

#

#

Sam didn't recognize the number on his phone, but considering the events of late, it might not be a good idea to ignore an Unkown Caller.

"Hey," he answered.

"Sam, why in the hell can't I get into my house? Did you change the locks?"

"Maddie?"

"Do you know what a pain it's been to get your damned phone number? I finally got it from one of your cop buddies. I really appreciate you all keeping me in the loop. I don't have numbers for Jesse or Fi, either."

"Maddie, when did you get back? I thought you were staying in Savannah."

"I needed to come home, but that's the problem, Sam. I'm locked out. You or Jesse must have changed the locks, and I'll be damned if I'm breaking into my own home, so come and let me in."

"Crap."

"It's really good to hear from you, too."

"That's not what I meant, Maddie."

"Sounded exactly like what you meant, Sam. Now get over here. I'm sitting on the front porch."

"Yes, ma'am."

Elsa watched Sam climb out of bed. After he'd returned from the hospital, they'd spent two hours discussing the world-changing events of Sam's day.

"This complicates everything, doesn't it?" she observed.

"Elsa, I'm—so, so sorry about this."

"Where will you take her?"

"She can't stay at her house—it's not safe. I could bring her back here for a while . . . or I can take her to be with Fi."

He was stuffing a .45 into a concealed holster at the small of his back when she stopped his motions with a soft hand on his cheek.

"I'll call Fiona and let her know."

He stopped and encompassed her in his arms. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

She kissed his cheek. "By being yourself. That's more than enough."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

#

#

#

Jesse found himself standing on Dani's doorstep with his mother's framed picture in his hand. He wasn't sure what to do with himself, but he'd promised he'd be here, so he was here.

When she opened the door, she attempted a cheeky grin. "Heyyy, dinner might be late . . .er ."

"Later?"

"It's . . . it's burned, and I don't—" she spun around and walked back to her small kitchen. Jesse put the picture on the table by the door, shut the door and followed her.

One of the many things he liked about Dani Pearce besides the sass was that she made it a point to avoid tears and drama. She straightened up when she sensed he was behind her.

She was examining the steaming casserole on the counter that filled the air with the acrid stench of a burnt starch. Across the room, a green salad, a loaf of Italian bread and a bottle of red wine waited on the small round table. There was a fat candle sitting in the center waiting to be lit.

"I don't think it's worth saving," she said, keeping her back to him.

"It's okay," he said as he caressed her shoulders with a gentle touch. She surprised him by turning and wrapping her arms around his waist; she couldn't know how comforting her embrace was for him at that moment. He closed his eyes and absorbed her as best he could.

"I think the timer's broken on the oven, and I wasn't paying attention." The words were soft and husky against his neck.

"It's okay, Dan, really." He kissed her cheek and let his lips slide toward hers in a sweetly gentle exchange. "I just like being with you."

She pulled away to look up into his face and smiled. "Pizza? I can call or—"

"What you have here is great. Okay?"

"Okay, but . . ." She studied his face for a moment. "Are you okay?"

"Ehhh," he delayed. "Let's get rid of this, and open a window or something."

Dani flipped on a vent fan while Jesse dumped the charred lasagna into the garbage disposal. He left the room for a moment and returned with the framed photo in his hands. He set it on the counter, removed his suit jacket, draped it on the back of chair, and without meeting Dani's questioning gaze, poured wine in their glasses.

He handed her a glass and tipped his toward the photo. "To my mother."

"To your mom."

It was impossible to miss the resemblance between the young woman in the photograph and Jesse.

"I thought," she said very quietly, "you only had that one photo of her."

"My . . . father . . . had this one. I just . . . took it."

She realized what he'd said, and knew where he'd been. It took a moment to absorb that stunning news.

"Your father is Anders Porter."

"Surprise," he replied coolly. "Good . . . old . . . dad."

Dani glanced at the photograph. "She was . . ."

"Apparently, I had a sister who died."

She slid her hand along his arm in a small attempt to offer comfort.

"Are you all right?" She asked again, as she saw the sad confusion in his expression.

"Yeah . . ."

It was an awkward moment she didn't know how to handle, but she knew the easiest thing to do was to do the next thing.

Dinner, what remained of it, waited. Apparently, Jesse read her mind as they each turned to a task. She lit the candle. He refilled his glass and hers and pulled her chair out. She sat and then offered him the salad but he set the bowl down without serving himself.

"When he asked me to come by his house, I thought it was strange, but it got stranger. One minute he was telling me about Sam helping him, and the next minute there's this room in his house with that picture and a bunch of stuff from my childhood." Jesse reached for his glass and took a sip.

He met her gaze straight on. "And then he said I look like my uncles . . . and that they were killed the same night my mom was. I didn't know I had uncles. I asked him where he was when she was killed, why he wasn't taking care of her, and he said he was in a hospital in Israel. I ought to be able to . . ."

She touched his hand, grasped it, and watched as he processed and juggled information.

"Maybe you should talk to him again."

He shook his head no. "Maybe. But that won't change it, and neither can he." He served himself before passing the bowl to her.

She heard his grief, and ached for him. Their relationship had grown from friendship to something beyond that. He did not know how deeply she had come to care for him because she hadn't told him yet.

Dani could see Jesse felt betrayed. She wanted to remind him he was missing information. There must have been a significant reason Col. Anders Porter left his nine-year old son in the care of the State of Georgia's social services network, and chose not to make a connection years later when he was hired by his firm. Why?

She had met Col. Porter several times. The man was well-respected, honored by the men he once commanded, and his personal integrity was a valued commodity in the intelligence community.

The first time she met him was last year when Raines arrived in Miami, surreptitiously checking on the progress of Michael Westen's renewed agency role, although that wasn't his stated reason for being there.

That evening she and Jesse had their first dinner date, but it wasn't as private as they hoped because they crossed paths with him in a restaurant where he was dining with Raines and Gustafson. Jesse stopped and they exchanged introductions. The last time she saw the colonel was only a few weeks ago, while she waited for Jesse at SecuriCorp. It had struck her then, how his eyes lit up when Jesse arrived.

"Your boss really likes you," she'd commented later. "I'm still working my way off Raines' list."

Jesse laughed. "He's a cool old dude. I was lucky to get a job here after I left CIFA. He and Gus are known a lot by former military, and I think the colonel and Sam must have hit all the same hot spots around the world at different times."

Jesse's recent return to SecuriCorp came after Raines arrived with his get-out-of-jail-free cards for everyone but Michael, within days of recalling her from Mumbai. When she stepped off the plane, he was waiting to ream her royally for circumventing CIA procedure while she and Jesse had looked for the source of the gun used to kill Anson and Nate.

He expected Dani to be his reliable, sober, clear-thinking and dependable resource in Miami, and her reassignment to Mumbai had annoyed him. He'd counted on her following the rules, and told her she'd let him down, and then he made sure the officer who reassigned her to Mumbai was reassigned to the opposite coast after encouraging his superior to do that.

"You've been hanging out with Westen, Axe and Porter too long," he'd said. "I like creativity, but there's a line, Pearce, and you went over it. Straighten up. I need to rely on you to follow through on Card and Riley's activities. Do I have your promise? Because I can send you back to Mumbai if you want."

It took her several quiet "yes, sirs" before Raines changed subjects to a psych eval outside agency norms.

She had been back in Miami not quite 24 hours when she called Jesse to tell him she'd returned. He seemed to be as interested as she was in renewing their relationship which made her welcome home so much sweeter.

Soon after that, everything between them became incredibly personal. They had been dancing around the edge of what to call it for a while. That was where they'd stopped, because it was always easier to talk about their work.

Then, tonight, he said he wanted to leave SecuriCorp.

"I hope you'll sleep on that idea," she said softly. "You need to have your other questions answered. There has to be a reason he was protecting you."

"Is that what you think?" He frowned, doubting the conclusion she'd drawn.

"It makes sense to me."

"Maybe . . . when I was a kid, but I'm an adult, and I've worked there almost three years now."

"You still should ask him," she said as she held his gaze. He reached for her hand and turned her palm up to kiss it, and then the moment changed.

"I'm sorry I've dumped all this personal stuff on you," he said.

Before Jesse made space for himself in her life, she had never felt like the moth drawn to flame, any flame; not even her former fiancé had prompted this same sense of urgent need to share the same space or breathe the same air. She brushed off the cliché. Now she couldn't.

"After all the stuff I told you about Jay, I'd say we're even."

"I don't know what I'd do without you now."

His admission nearly stole her breath.

"Blow out the candle, Dan."

They quickly became entangled with each other. The comfort of recently discovered passion led to her bedroom. These moments were still tender between them—and although they had spent nights together, tonight, more than any that preceded, seemed incredibly necessary.

The next morning as they prepared to leave for their jobs, he turned to her. "We should figure out how to make this more permanent."

"We should," she agreed after a small pause.

"Can I leave that here?" He nodded toward his mother's picture.

"I let you stay, didn't I?"

He grinned as he followed her out the door.

#

#

#

"Little early for that, isn't it?"

Jesse pulled out the metal chair and sat down next to Sam.

When he couldn't locate him at work or the house on Star Island, he guessed Sam was ignoring his calls. The next most logical place to look was the pool side bar in Elsa's hotel.

Sam wasn't dressed for work.

He was back in his flowered shirt and linen pants wardrobe. The pool bar wasn't open, but that wasn't a problem for Sam. The activity level was high as employees finished cleaning and maintenance tasks before guests would arrive.

Jesse set his coffee cup on the glass table top next to what he guessed was a large orange juice and vodka.

Sam raised his glass and tipped it toward Jesse. "Not at all. Screwdrivers are an acceptable breakfast."

"For you, maybe."

"You didn't answer your phone last night."

"I didn't want to," Jesse said.

Sam watched his friend turn into granite. Jesse tended to be dangerous when he did this, but what'd happened yesterday wasn't his fault. He attempted to keep Jesse's temper from escalating.

"The man isn't healthy, Jess. He spent the night in the ER. He's going home today. Gus was with him. He needs bypass surgery. He's been putting it off."

"I should care?"

"I hear he waited because he was trying to figure out how to talk to you."

"We talk all the time."

"Business. Not family."

Jesse's rapid response was low and very angry. "I didn't know he was family until last night. He said you helped him. _You _helped him, Sam?"

"All I did was tell him he needed to talk to you."

"How did _you _know?"

Sam held his hands up in the sign of surrender. "I guessed. Yesterday, I guessed, OK? _Yesterday._"

He held his gaze until he saw he believed him.

"It's your hands," Sam explained, "they're shaped like his. It's the way he always looks at you. _I guessed_. Have you noticed there are a lot of things that don't add up when you mix SecuriCorp with Raines and the CIA? That's where I started asking questions, and when he didn't deny it, I told him he needed to talk to you and I left."

Jesse glanced down at his hands. He didn't see the similarity. "Why did you do that?"

"You're my friend, and that's a damned big secret to keep."

"Yeah."

"I don't want to get between anyone and their kid. Not you and your dad, not that mess with Mike and Fi, not Elsa and Evan. Oh, and just so you know, there's a cherry on top of the muck. Maddie's back as of last night. She's upstairs. Elsa put her in her family suite. I was going to take her to stay with Fi, but—"

"Fi didn't want to see her. I could have predicted that."

"I've got orders from Fi to keep my mouth shut. That must apply to you, too."

"I know."

Jesse examined Sam's expression and the newly empty glass. "Why are_ you_ in such a bad mood?"

"Oh, hell, I don't know. I guess I'm just waiting for the rest of the crap to hit the fan."

"It can't be that bad."

"It's worse."

"When did you turn into such a pessimist?"

The determined stride in a pair of expensive high heels echoing loudly on the concrete and tile decking interrupted what Sam had been about to say. Jesse looked over his shoulder to see Elsa check something on a tablet notebook, glancing at the employees working in the pool area.

"I thought you were going to the office," she said, as she stopped behind Sam and put her hand on his shoulder.

"I am."

"I'm having a staff meeting here in a few minutes, so . . ."

"We're gone." Sam stood, left a kiss on Elsa's cheek and picked up his glass to return to the bar area inside the hotel.

"Lunch here, at noon with Maddie?" Elsa asked. "With both of you?"

"I'll be back," Sam said.

"Me, too."

They were halfway to where Jesse left his car when Sam said, "Thanks, Jess. She's not happy with me after last night."

"Who? Fi, Maddie or Elsa?"

"All three."

At least Jesse had something to smile about.

#

#

#

Michael couldn't sleep after hearing Fi's voice.

Which meant he'd gone more than 72 hours without the ability to close his eyes or rest.

Lack of sleep shouldn't have hindered his ability to think clearly, but that wasn't happening. He didn't have this problem when he was in the field. Adrenalin? He didn't know.

What he did know was this was not the time to lose focus.

Here, he could work as much as he needed, and he was safe, for now, hidden in this odd cocoon of Tyler Gray's making

If he wanted to dwell on missing Fiona it would keep him from what he needed to do. Walter J. Ramsey had transitioned from innocuous public servant, a politico, to a dangerous opponent with a global reach with just a few whispered words.

Refocusing on the problem of connecting people, places and crimes to Ramsey was turning into something he couldn't fully accomplish, even using his standard tools for problem solving.

Michael's four-part process had been part of him since he figured it out when he was a kid. It started with inspiration. The next step was to let it incubate, to flesh it out, and then came the hard work of preparation—and tackling the problem in such a way that the result he wanted could be achieved.

His last step was to verify that the process and procedure he used were effective.

Unfortunately, he was stuck somewhere between inspiration and incubation, not that he could have used those words to identify his mental roadblock. It was intrinsic now. Part of him. Like Fiona. He kept working the Ramsey problem backward and forward, but he had yet to identify why he continued to put Fiona in the same mix.

She didn't belong there.

He stretched, flexed his hands, separated and stretched fingers that had been cramped over Gray's small laptop keyboard for too many hours.

Maybe his problem was something as simple as missing his team—Sam and Jesse's skills, in particular, and Fiona's succinct conclusions and observations.

Fiona.

Every time he went down that road where she was standing at the end, he had to stop, reverse course and go back to the beginning of the last thing he was working on, but it was becoming a struggle to remember what that was.

What was wrong with him? Besides exhaustion?

One thing he was clear on was that he needed to get in touch with Jesse, somehow. He had thought of a couple of ways to do that, and he'd weighed which was the more reasonable approach, but Fiona's image kept intruding . If someone was watching his friends, as he suspected they were, Sam would be the most obvious link. If Fiona was still . . .

Abruptly, he stood.

Why couldn't he make his mind go where he wanted? He picked up a pen and threw it across the room and grimaced when the point embedded itself in a wall and vibrated with a twanggg. That's when he took a deep breath, blew it out and slowly shut down the laptop, disconnected the cable to the internet, and moved away from the work area.

Suddenly, he was in the dark.

He chuckled quietly. At least he could still laugh at himself when the lights popped off.

Yes, he was in the dark, but it wasn't only because Gray had programmed the lights to go on and off randomly, months at a time, giving the illusion of occupancy. Tonight they shut down at 11.

He'd found the peculiarities of entering Gray's safe location weren't that peculiar. Gray had done many of the same things he might have done in setting up a safe house, even the interior lighting programs, timed to the seasons, and hours of the day.

Darkness was conducive to sleep, so he decided to try to sleep again.

Last night the bed didn't offer rest; tonight, he'd try to couch. He grabbed a blanket from the bed and stretched out on the sofa. When he closed his eyes, he could hear her, once more, ask him to promise he would come back to her.

And, all he could manage was "I'll try."

That wasn't what he wanted to say.

_Try hard, Michael. We need you._

He should have told her he needed her, too, so much it hurt.

Throwing off the blanket, he sat up and fumbled around on the floor for his shoes, or rather Gray's worn hiking boots. It'd been a convenient thing to discover they wore most of the same sizes.

He'd scouted the location for accessing Jesse earlier. All he needed was change. He checked his pockets and discovered 45 cents, but Gray had a tin can on the counter full of coins, so he fished out the quarters.

He pulled an olive drab field jacket from the closet and put it on, then debated adding a cap, deciding the beard he was growing would be enough cover. Two blocks south and one east would put him in an economically depressed neighborhood. There was a 24-hour gas station with all the essentials—cigarettes, lotto tickets, beer, milk, bread and the most rare of rare things, a pay phone.

The clerk locked inside the bulletproof housing depressed the intercom.

"Can I help you?"

"Phone?"

He pointed. "It doesn't always work. Let me know if it takes your money and won't connect."'

Michael nodded. " 'kay."

Several layers of grime covered the phone, but he scanned the instructions, inserted his coins and slowly tapped in Jesse's office phone number. His only message was to leave the number of the prepaid cell phone he'd purchased.

On his way out, he gave the clerk a thumbs up and left the opposite direction than he'd arrived, cutting across streets to return to Gray's safe house.

Unfortunately, leaving Jesse the message didn't mean he'd be able to sleep that night, either.

#

#

#

Dealing with Madeline Westen when she took the bit in her teeth was a lot like dealing with Mike when he was in the same mood.

At least there was a possibility to reason with Mike, but with Maddie, the woman had to let off steam and deflate before an actual conversation could take place.

Sam had to thank God and Elsa for the heads-up about that last night.

He'd just arrived at Madeline's house to find her pacing on her front porch, when Elsa called to let him know Fi wasn't ready to welcome guests and to bring Maddie back to the hotel.

Unfortunately, he'd already mentioned he was taking her to see Fi which meant a 30 minute ride with Maddie machine-gunning questions at him, none of which he answered in any way that satisfied the Westen curiosity gene.

At least he'd learned how she got to Miami, since her car was still in her garage at home. She'd caught a ride with one of her brother-in-law's friends, a long distance truck driver.

By the time they returned to the hotel, Elsa made sure the suite reserved for Evan when he was home was ready for Madeline. And rather than drive back to the house on Star Island, Sam and Elsa decided to stay the night at the hotel, too.

Which meant he wasn't exactly dressed for business this morning, but what the hell.

Sam caught a ride with Jesse, and he'd kept a lid on his concerns until they were back at SecuriCorp.

"We need to talk, Jess," he'd said, as he followed Jesse into his office.

Once inside, Sam stood near Jesse's desk looking at the ceiling.

"Sam?"

"Trying to figure out where the damned AV is up there."

"I've wondered about the colonel's office . . ."

"It's everywhere this building. I just don't see it."

"Conspiracy theories?"

"_It's there._ Somewhere." When Sam glanced down, he noticed the FedEx package Jesse had left behind his desk yesterday.

He picked up the package and examined it. "You have a client in Norfolk?"

"No one. I figure it's . . . what, Sam?"

"Open it." He held it out toward Jesse who wasn't picking up on his urgency.

Jesse frowned and ignored the request.

"_Turner? You got a box from someone named Turner_?"

"What?"

They weren't on the same wave length which prompted Sam to pull perforated tab and open the box. Out tumbled a cell phone, a wallet, two mini AV tapes and a note. He flipped open the wallet and verified the owner.

Jesse met Sam's gaze then looked back to the things on the table. "That's his agency phone. Dani's got one just like it."

"You got the Turner connection now?"

"Yeah."

He held up the note which they both read: _Going silent. Listen to the tapes. Talk to Raines._ _Tell Fi I miss her. Take care of Mom. Thanks._

Sam stuffed the things back inside the box and turned toward the door. "Come on."

#

#

#

Gus Gustafson's office was next door Anders Porter's office. His assistant was an older woman with a cheerful face who possessed absolutely no weakness for Sam Axe charm.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she greeted them. "What brings you here? It wasn't an invitation."

"Is Gus in?"

"He just arrived." She reached for her phone.

"Great," Sam said, as he opened the door. "We'll announce ourselves."

Gustafson wasn't the least surprised to see Sam walk in with Jesse behind him.

His office had the same layout as the others, so Sam went directly to the conference table, released the lever under the table that elevated the built-in screen and player that would accommodate the tapes Mike sent.

"What's that?" Gus asked.

"A gift from Mike Westen, but before we do this, you need to tell Jesse what the hell's going on."

"I don't_ need_ to do a damned thing, Axe."

"You do because you, Porter and Raines are playing games with my life and my friends' lives. I know it's connected to Mike."

Gus ignored Sam and looked at Jesse. "I'm sure yesterday was difficult for you; it was for Anders."

Jesse glanced between him and Sam and shook his head. "What the hell is going on?"

"I'll tell you, but let's listen to what Sam has cued up."

They proceeded by date, and watched Mike's first interview with Olivia Riley and then the second. Toward the end, it was apparent Mike was blocking the camera as he closed the distance between himself and Riley, and whatever she said to him, what they couldn't hear had to have been significant if it triggered Mike's response to walk away from everything.

"Do you know what she could have said?" Jesse asked, glancing between Gustafson and Sam.

"She told him who's trying to kill her. Walter Jacob Ramsey," Gus said.

"Raines' boss?" Jesse said, an incredulous expression on his face. "No . . ."

"Yes."

"He's a presidential appointee," Jesse said, still disbelieving, "now and when he was head of the CIA."

"He's also an illegal arms trader who's operates under the name Berg and several others, and he's eluded detection for decades. The last person who got close to publicly identifying him was Anders, and he nearly died for the effort when his vehicle hit a land mine in an area under guard, cleared two hours earlier."

"In Israel?"

Gustafson nodded and took the seat at the end of the table. "We were on our way to accompany an Israeli unit that was shipping weapons through a Persian expatriate arms dealer to aid an Ayatollah who supposedly was a friendly."

"No," Jesse said, barely believing what he was hearing.

"The arms dealer was the middleman in the Iran-Contra mess," Sam interpreted quietly.

"We knew Ghorbanifar was tied to Ramsey," Gus said. "We wanted to expose him, but that didn't happen."

"Ghorbanifar was the Persian dealer," Sam explained. "Funny how history can swing back around to bite you on the butt."

Jesse looked like he'd been slammed against a wall. "Did you say . . . Berg?"

"Yeah."

"Mike just . . ." he paced to the end of the room and back again. "That's . . . impossible."

"What?" Sam asked.

"That's the name I'd spent three months tracking when Mike used my ID at the Fusion Center and I got burned."

Gus grimaced and paced to his desk then back. "I'd tell you this surprises me but it doesn't. Nothing does anymore"

"So," Sam drawled, "why didn't Ramsey's name show up during the Congressional investigation into Iran-Contra?"

"It should have." Gustafson growled. "We were absolutely certain Ramsey's role as one of the Persian's suppliers would be revealed during the hearings. But, it didn't happen. You can guess why. If you can't buy them, kill them. He sent us all the same message. It was exceedingly effective, and stopped us from pursing anything more. _Then_."

Sam shook his head sadly. "So that's it."

"At first we didn't understand it was Ramsey who sent the message."

"What happened?" Jesse asked.

"It was a veritable three-act play. Your father nearly died; his injuries were so severe he was forced into early retirement. While he was in the hospital in Tel Aviv, your mother was killed and so were her brothers, which told us something about the length of Ramsey's reach because your parents' marriage was not widely known, but someone knew. Those files you've been trying to access from the Atlanta PD disappeared long ago, Jesse. And, your family wasn't the only one affected.

"My wife and . . . three of my children were on their way to join me and our youngest daughter in North Carolina when her car was rammed. They all died at the bottom of a very steep cliff. Raines' wife and his daughter were killed when their home exploded with what was called an 'unfortunate' gas leak. Each of these deaths occurred within the same 5 days. None of us put this together until three years after it happened. That's when we realized we had been sent a message. So we listened, but we've been waiting and watching all this time."

"How was Raines involved with you?" Sam asked. "You and colonel were both Delta Force. Raines wasn't. Where did you all connect back then?"

"He was a new CIA recruiter. You know the CIA looks to the 75th Ranger Regiment out of Benning for recruits, ike Westen. Most of the recruits who come into the CIA as operatives are Rangers. There are some SEALs, but not as many. We think Raines, like Westen, stumbled over something when he moved back to field work, because of the timing. He still can't figure it out."

"This speculation?" Jesse said. "This is nuts."

"Our theory is Westen knows, or has seen, something that could take Ramsey down. Raines has worked on this for years. Right now we think Ramsey's involved with the covert auctions in Egypt that are getting so much PR."

"Yeah. That'd be the Libyan arms the U.S. never supplied to the freedom fighters," Sam drawled, "if you're dumb enough to call them freedom fighters or believe the political public relations."

Gustafson shook his head at Sam's wry analysis, but continued. "We also think Ramsey is connected, in some manner, to everyone who's tried to take Westen down since he got burned. We were speculating that there's a common thread that links Card and Riley, Anson Fullerton, former CIA operatives known as Carla and Vaughn with Strickler and Sizemore. Tell me these people weren't similar. All of this is a game to the sick bastard."

Jesse looked at Sam. "Carla and Strickler? That's before my time."

Sam sat back in the chair and tented his fingers together. "Different approaches, common objectives, and every one of them had something they wanted Mike to do for them. I can see it."

"It's a weird pattern . . ." Jesse commented, his face as somber as Sam's.

"Can you see how you got sucked into this, Jesse? You're the accident. We don't think he's connected Anders to you, and we don't want him to."

"Yeah, we don't really look alike."

"I'm right about Raines," Sam said, glaring at Gustafson. "He wrote Mike's burn notice."

Jesse turned his head and stared at Sam. "What?"

Gustafson agreed. "He did. It saved Westen's life. It took Raines a while to figure out how to bury the source, but he did. Westen was supposed to head back to Yemen after the Nigerian assignment where he got burned. He would have died there, Axe. Miami's been a lot safer for him."

"If I was Mike, I wouldn't see it that way," Sam drawled.

"Me, either. Where did Ramsey come from?" Jesse asked. "I never heard of him until a few years ago when he was named to the CIA, but he only lasted there a year and half or so."

Gus wandered as he spoke, his hands in his pockets. "He wasn't really active in politics until the last few years, but he's good at it, otherwise he wouldn't have risen so quickly in the intel communities. Real soldiers don't get appointed; they're hired, like you and Westen. And Pearce.

"We've been studying him for a couple of decades now. We were surprised to learn he's not an American by birth. He was a young teen when he was adopted by his diplomat parents in Russia, about the time Khrushchev was icing down the Cold War.

"That an American couple would be allowed to adopt a Russian child at that time in our geopolitical history was almost unheard of, but, they brought him back to Virginia and gave him every advantage several generations of tobacco money on both sides of the Ramsey family made available."

"He wasn't military, was he?" Sam remembered. "Diplomatic corps then home to the family business after his parents died, then World Bank, then—" Sam shook his head at the improbability of taking down someone with Ramsey's power, authority and reach. "This is insane. Having this guy as an enemy . . . you can't take him down with one agent out there alone and the rest of us here. What are you guys drinking?"

Gus grimaced. "We used to think the same thing, then we realized that taking him down has to be something elegantly simple. We can't just shoot him, or we would have done that long ago. It has to be done with great care. Now that Westen's dropped off the map, I'm guessing he's putting this together in a different sequence than we have."

"Wait a minute," Sam said. "You knew Mike had gone silent before we got here."

"So what? You would have been informed—and it looks like you have been, or," as he leaned over and read the address on the box, "Jesse was."

Jesse held up a hand. "Enough. What happens now?"

"We need to talk to Westen. We need perspective. And we can help him. Raines is building a case that Westen has become irrational, is stressed out, and has gone off the deep end; he's using some of Anson's faulty analyses to throw the curious off his scent. Probably get a medical leave of absence."

Sam and Jesse glanced at each other.

"This sucks," Jesse said, rising from his seat. "Mike's out there somewhere without support, obviously aware someone's looking for him. When Raines IDs him as an unreliable. This is crazy."

"When did we hit your rear view?" Sam wondered. He was as agitated as Jesse, but there were still parts of the picture missing.

"When Westen got to Miami, we watched him work, watched him build his network. First you, then Glenanne, then when he burned Jesse, that was a gift none of us expected because the team got stronger. We watched you all become an effective unit. It's asymmetrical warfare on a very precise, personal level."

Jesse shook his head. "Wrap me up with a damned bow. I'm a gift? Know what I think? I think you, the colonel . . . Raines, you're playing fast and loose with peoples' lives. And Raines reports to the man you're trying to take down. How the hell did that happen?"

"By Ramsey's design," Gustafson admitted quietly. "After Raines lost his family, he became obsessed with his work. He didn't make the Ramsey connection until SecuriCorp was contracted for a job with Raines about eight years ago that we put it all together."

Sam looked at his watch then at Jesse. "We got to go, Jess."

Jesse glanced at his own watch. "Oh, hell, yes."

"We're not done. Where are you going?"

Sam retrieved the tapes from the player and slipped them back into his pocket. "Mike's ma is back in town. We got to go figure out how to keep her safe, keep her away from Fiona and lie to her about what her only living son is doing. Want to come?"

"Not this time," Gus said.

"Tell Raines if he wants to see Mike's Riley sessions, to call me."

Jesse had been ready to turn away when Gustafson stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Do me favor and go see your father. He's not well."

"Lot of that going around," Jesse said as he followed Sam out the door.

When the left the building and walked through the cool, shaded underground parking facility, neither man spoke. It wasn't until they were both inside Jesse's car and had closed the doors that they looked at each other. "We have to keep her safe."

"I'm thinking Fi." Jesse said.

"Maddie."

"Yeah." They agreed in unison.

"Now I understand the breakfast," Jesse said as he leaned his head back on the headrest.

"We got to get in touch with Mike. He needs to know what the hell he's walking into."

"After Riley, don't you think he does?" Jesse turned the key in the ignition and shifted into reverse.

"I don't know."

"We'll figure it out. What are we going to do about Maddie?"

"She needs to go back to her sister's," Sam said.

"You don't think she deserves to know Fi's . . .?

"Of course I do, but . . ." Sam sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Crap."

"I need to talk to Dani . . . "

"Elsa."

"Both Fi and Maddie need to know."

"I agree, but how much? Let's get through lunch first."

When Jesse pulled up to the front of the hotel, he looked at Sam. "Tell Maddie . . . whatever you want to tell her, but I'm going to see Fi."

"Ah, Jess . . . "

"She needs to know, to understand. It's the right thing to do, Sam. You know it."

Sam dropped his head. "I do, but I'm not telling Maddie."

"Call me if you need a ride."

"No, I'll be taking care of business here, for the rest of the day, probably."

#

#

#

He still hadn't adjusted to seeing her with short hair, but it was good to see the warm smile on Fiona's face instead of a frown.

"Hey, come on in, Jesse. I was just thinking about you."

"You were?"

She laughed, a bit embarrassed. "I was hungry for fish tacos and I know you like them, so I was trying to figure out if I should call and ask you to bring me some."

"Hell, yes. It's lunch time."

"Really?"

"How about I get us some fish tacos and bring them back?"

"I'd like that. But you didn't stop by for a takeout order."

"No, I want to talk to you about Mike."

She closed her eyes. "Oh, I'm not—"

"I'm not going to harass you . . . I've just had a couple of things on my mind. Please?"

She smiled. "Okay. Tacos first, though."

"Back soon."

And he was, but he'd called Dani on the way and told her what he was doing, then asked if she would come spend the evening at his place.

"Say hi to Fiona for me."

And when he returned with the tacos, he relayed Dani's message.

"Do you two spend a lot of time together?" Fi asked after they'd separated the take out goodies and divided them on the small dining room table where she'd set iced tea glasses and plates and napkins.

"We . . . have been."

Fiona studied him for a moment.

"I think she makes you happy, Jesse."

"And you make Mike happy."

She looked away from him then. "I'm not sure what makes Michael happy except his work."

"It's what he has to do. Not who he loves."

"That was . . ." she started to say, then suddenly she breathed in deeply and sharply.

"You okay?"

She blew out a breath of air slowly. "Mmhumm."

"I'm good but . . . I'm saving the rest of this this for later," she explained as she got up awkwardly, closed the takeout container and stashed it in the refrigerator. "More tea?"

"No." Jesse followed her into the kitchen. "Seriously, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, this is normal. He's just a little busy today."

"He?"

"I'm going to have a boy, Jesse."

"Oh, man."

"It's not a bad thing," she said softly.

"No, no, it sure isn't. But I got to tell you what's going on, Fi. You need to know."

She sat very still and very quiet as he explained, as best he could, step by step, everything he'd learned about what they were all involved with, one way or another.

Jesse finished telling Fiona everything he could about where Mike had been and what he was doing. Then he told her about what he and Sam had learned this morning, and he'd given her the note Mike had enclosed inside the box he'd sent to Jesse at SecuriCorp.

While he'd been telling her the most incredible story she could have imagined, she had held Michael's handwritten note in her hand. She could add this to her collection. The shirt he'd sent. The card he'd asked Jesse to deliver, and now this note to Jesse.

"He's walked away, and now you know why," he finished.

"He won't come back because it might endanger us," she said softly.

"Yeah, but it's not forever."

"It could be," she said, as she grabbed his hand and squeezed it in an effort to make him understand. "I don't want our son to be as old as you before he meets his father, but it looks like that might happen. I do not want what Michael does to endanger our son."

"Fi, do you get it? This is not something Mike brought on himself. The only thing I know for sure is that Mike wants you to be safe, and Sam and I will do everything we can to keep you safe, and your son when he's born."

"And I appreciate your help, but my priorities have changed. There's someone more important than Michael now—his son. And, Michael does not need to know about this, understand?"

"You keep repeating that."

"Obviously, I think I need to. This is my life, my child. Michael doesn't need to know and neither does his mother. When the time comes, I'll let them know."

"Yeah, Fi."

"Jesse?"

"I heard you."

Talking to Fiona left Jesse confused and troubled, but he was silently firm in his conviction that he would do the right thing. Fiona would disagree, but a man had the right to know if he had a child.

He _would_ tell Mike about Fiona. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Mike would also do the right thing. For his part, he was committing himself to making certain Fi and her baby would be protected for as long as they needed to be.

When Fi said she was tired and needed to rest, he could see the exhaustion on her face and in her movements. He made sure she'd locked up, and then headed back to SecuriCorp.

#

#

#

Before he and Sam left the building earlier, he'd shoved Mike's wallet in his desk drawer and locked it, but decided it would be better to store it in the safe in his office. He retrieved the wallet, moved it to the safe, then noticed the light blinking on his phone, indicating a message. Dialing into the system, he was connected to a voice mail; he jotted down the number and called.

When Mike picked up the call, Jesse wasted no time. "How secure is this line?"

"This is prepaid burner and your line is secure. Probably as good as it gets. I need some things."

"We've got the outline of what's happening, but we need a way to exchange information."

"Okay, but first I need a picture of Fi."

Jesse smiled. First thing? A picture of Fi was the first thing he needed?

"What's the best way to get it to you?"

"Mail. I've got a rental box." He rattled off the address.

"Okay. Does your phone receive messages?"

"Yeah."

It wasn't until Mike was satisfied Jesse would follow through on his request for a photo of Fiona that he discussed what else he needed.

Three minutes later, they ended the call.

That's when Jesse committed a sin that Fiona might consider unpardonable, and sent two photo files to Mike's phone.

Somewhere in Baltimore, Michael picked up his phone when it beeped. He tapped to open the first image file and saw Fiona's haircut.

He grinned at the haircut, and remembered where they had been and what had happened the last time she'd cut her hair that short. Then he opened the second image file.

"Oh."

He held the phone with both hands. The small image there had chained him in silence as he felt his heart grow to twice its size inside his chest.

It was so beautiful he could barely inhale.

The brilliance of sunlight and muted rose shadows outlined the silhouette of mother with child, Fiona and their child.

Now he grasped why he couldn't focus.

Somewhere, somehow he knew this. It was part of him. He needed it confirmed.

He had not dreamed this. He closed his eyes briefly. He knew exactly when that happened, the exact moment in time that their child had come to be; it had been like no moment ever before between them, and it wasn't just a matter that she was finally free, or that he needed her more than ever before, or that she needed him in the same way.

It was precious and private and heart-filling with its beauty, the moment all the pain had flown away and joy filled the void that had been created while they were apart. A new creation, a rare and precious gift of new life would be theirs and theirs alone.

Now his frustration, his worry, his disconnected thoughts made sense. His need to keep her safe, the reason his thoughts were constantly pulled to her—every dissonant moment. They were apart, but they were one. A small blanket of comfort peacefully settled over his soul.

He diminished the image and redialed the previous call.

Jesse was still there.

"Thank you," was all he said by way of greeting.

"You're welcome."

"When?"

"About nine weeks."

"Thank you," he said again, and then he ended the call.

Jesse was glad he'd let his instinct lead him.

It had been a good call.

So he made another, and dialed Anders Porter's home phone number.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

#

#

#

Elsa found Sam sitting in a chair on the balcony of her private suite when her work day ended.

The light was changing, growing darker as seasons changed. He appeared lost in thought, but she had yet to catch him off guard. When she rested her hands on his shoulders, he looked up at her.

The military and corporate worlds were parallel universes with chains of command, structure, organization and procedure, occasional profanity and rule-breaking. It gave the active duty CEO a unique appreciation of the retired Commander, and he of her.

She enjoyed his small considerations such as a morning kiss in private instead of an embrace that might crush her elegant uniform, because officers' uniforms require maintenance.

"Can I wrinkle you now?" he asked.

Elsa stepped around to the front of the chair and sat on his lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She was rewarded, as he was, with a kiss of sweet welcome.

"Mmmm, this was worth waiting for," she said. "How did it go with Maddie?"

"I told her everything, sweetheart."

She smiled and interpreted. "You told her everything she'd need to know to stay safe. She'll worry, but you didn't give her more reasons to worry than you had to, and now you're tired from the effort."

He kissed her again. "You . . . amaze me."

"Is she still here?"

"No, I took her to see Fiona."

"That's a surprise."

"She called Fi so I took her over there. I guess Fi changed her mind."

"Hmm. You look like you have a headache."

He sighed. "I'm not doing well with high maintenance women today."

"I'm high maintenance."

He kissed her again. "You just think you are."

When his cell phone vibrated in his shirt pocket, she reached down and removed it, holding it so he could see who was calling.

He frowned as took it from her hand. "Maddie? Yes, okay. Yes, I'll be right there."

Elsa was trying not to smile as she removed herself from his lap and kissed his forehead.

"I'll be back," he said wearily.

Elsa was correct; Sam was exhausted from artfully revising, on the fly, an abbreviated version of what he _thought _Mike was doing, because the truth was no one knew what he was doing. Not even Raines, not anymore. He kept emphasizing to Maddie that her son was with the CIA, but that didn't slow her inquisition.

Sam was of the opinion that Mike's mother deserved the truth—at least some it. She understood there were a lot of bad guys who had hid behind Tom Card, and the CIA was interested in bringing them from shadows into sunlight. She continued to tightly clutch her grudge against Card, because he'd manipulated and played on her emotions when she went to see him after Nate had been killed.

There were tears in her eyes when she told Sam about the line of bull he'd fed her about broken shards and sons. Once she refocused on Card, Sam's explanations became easier.

However, discussing Fiona with her was a different matter.

"Honest, Maddie. I have not talked with her since she came back. We argued that day Mike left, and she's still mad at me."

"The last time we talked, she to tell me she was leaving. But she's back now, and last night you said she wanted to see me before she didn't want to see me. Why?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know."

Steely blue eyes much like Mike's bored into him. "You have her phone number."

He opened his phone, hit Fi's number and handed it to her.

Their conversation was brief, almost too brief. When she handed it back to him she said, "She's not that mad at you. Take me there now, please."

So he did. But he did not accompany her inside the house. He watched as Fiona peeked through the blinds to verify who was at the door before she opened it. That's when Sam decided what was between Mike's womenfolk was between them.

Sam turned his car around and drove it, and his thumping headache, back to the hotel.

#

#

#

When Fiona opened the door, Madeline's gaze quickly flickered from the short hair on her head to her burgeoning waistline which could not be concealed beneath one of Michael's shirts.

Madeline didn't waste a moment to scold her son. "How could Michael do this? Just leave you? I can't believe it. Oh, no, yes I can. He has the wrong things in common with his father."

Fiona attempted to give Madeline a small hug. "He doesn't know. When he left that day, when I left, I didn't know, either."

"And what have you done to your hair? You don't even look like yourself."

Fiona tried not to frown. "I wanted a change, so I donated it to Locks of Love. They make wigs for cancer patients. It'll grow back."

Fiona studied the expression on Maddie's face for a moment. "I've missed you."

The dam burst. "Oh, I've missed you. This is like a—"

Every tear Madeline hadn't wept between Nate's death and Michael leaving found its way to her eyes. It took ten minutes and a box of tissues before she regained her composure. Fiona sat next to her on the couch; the only comfort she could offer was to move a wastebasket closer for Madeline to drop her used, damp tissues.

Finally, Maddie took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but . . . why are you so damned calm while I'm falling apart?"

Fiona did not attempt to explain that she had dealt with her tumultuous emotions privately, alone in a house in Key West. Now that she had locked the doors on those feelings and closed the shutters, the storms outside could rage, and she would ignore them. It was the only way she could deal with them.

"I can't change what I can't change, Madeline. I may not have Michael, but I'll have his son, and I've found something new to do with my life. I can take care of us both now, and I know we'll be fine. We will."

"I'm not seeing this the same way," she said slowly, dabbing at her eyes, and wiping away the last of her mascara. "You're having a boy? How long have you known?"

"Just a few weeks, that's all."

"When are you due?"

"Hmm," she delayed. "About two months from now."

Madeline studied Fiona's face for a moment, and then it struck her what had occurred when this new life had begun.

"The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Or vice versa," Maddie said bitterly as she excused herself and left the room.

Fiona expected Madeline's reaction; she didn't like it, but there was nothing she could do.

The innermost part of her that was so exuberantly happy about her pregnancy was something private, something she kept to herself. She couldn't share this with Madeline, and her thoughts about Michael were much too complicated to say anything that Madeline might misinterpret.

Fiona knew a part of her feared Michael's subtle rejection; another part of her hoped for and needed his elation, and still, another part feared that their child's existence meant enemies would find a new and tender target. How could she explain any of this to his mother? She could barely formulate her own feelings in simple sentences.

The complexities of who they were, what they had been and what they might be, and how they would proceed from this point onward were in a state of flux.

But there was something else. Fiona could see Madeline was not ready to be happy, not when Nate's death was still so close, so recent.

It was much easier for Madeline to do what she had so often done without understanding how it affected Michael—and that was to be angry with him. It was so much easier to turn away from someone's anger than to move closer to them. Fiona had watched her own mother struggle with the loss of a child, as she lost her ability to empathize with her children who had lost a sister.

She heard Madeline talking to Sam. Seconds later, the bathroom door closed and she heard her again, this time talking over the sound of running water.

When Madeline finally left the bathroom she returned to the living area and stood by the front window, apparently waiting for Sam.

"Madeline," Fiona began, "I don't want—"

Madeline spun back and held up a finger. "Just save it, Fiona."

"Maddie—"

The finger was back. "I don't know why my sons manage to pick . . . never mind. I've lost Nate. I've lost Charlie, and I'm not going to waste a minute mourning for a child you're taking away, too. I understand you want to keep him safe. Now I'm asking you to understand me."

"Madeline, I'm not—"

"There's Sam."

"Madeline, I won't—"

"Good-bye, Fiona. Take care of my second grandson. Let me know what you decide to name him."

Fiona expected her to slam the door on the way out, but she didn't.

#

#

#

Sam was waiting for Gus in his office. He'd arrived before most of the SecuriCorp workforce did, which was still ahead of the blonde bulldog whose station was outside Gustafson's office.

Last night, he'd returned an irritated Maddie to the hotel, only to have her pack her bags and demand that he take her to her house.

"I'm going back to Savannah in the morning. I want keys to my house. You never gave them to me when I got here. Do you think you can do that?"

"Maddie let me take you to Savannah."

"No."

"What happened with Fi?"

"That's none of your business."

"Why are you leaving?"

The number of times she'd told him to mind his own business confirmed what he already knew. Madeline Westen was one stubborn woman.

"Seriously, let me drive you there."

"No. I have a ride. He'll be there at 5:30 tomorrow morning. I'm going to my house, and I still need the keys, so you can take me there."

"It might not be safe to stay."

"Get real, Sam. Who would want to kill me? You say you don't know where Michael is. Fiona doesn't want to have anything to do with him. Listen. I'm not stupid. I promise if someone tries to kidnap me, I'll shoot them. Happy now?"

"No."

He'd spent the night on her couch, which provided more than an ample number of hours examine the current morass he was stuck in.

When the big red Peterbilt truck stopped in front of her house at 5:30 a.m., Sam met Milt, the driver who had dropped her off three days earlier. He asked Maddie to call when she arrived at her sister's house but wasn't counting on it.

Sam returned to the hotel, showered, changed and apologized to Elsa for his distracted state. She had to be the most patient woman on the planet. Or maybe, he thought, while he waited for Gus to arrive, that was Fiona.

#

#

#

"I should fire you."

Gustafson wasn't surprised see him sitting at his desk, using his computer, scrolling through files. Sam glanced up when he arrived.

"Go ahead."

"Raines said you were annoying. What do you want?"

"The electronics schematic of this building or you can tell me where you and Big Brother Porter located all the listening stations here, where they're monitored and where I can work in private."

Gustafson turned. "Come on."

When they both left his office, Sam nodded to Gus' assistant. "Good morning."

She scowled at him and did not return the greeting.

"My assistant is a retired agent. She has skills. I wouldn't toy with her."

"Noted."

Gus walked to the end of the hall, used a key to open what appeared to be an office door. Behind it an elevator door slid open and he stepped in.

"I'll get you a key," he said as the door closed. Seconds later, it reopened to reveal a vast space humming with electronics, screens, keyboards, maps. A wall of windows separated the zone into two large work spaces.

Gus pressed a finger to the glass. "The glass is one-way. There's another group of people who work on the sublevel."

Sam shook his head. "Intriguing, the levels of security in this building and the residential complex; it's a little freaky."

"We surpass the Pentagon, which is a challenge for any public or commercial building. The people who founded SecuriCorp, and those of us who have made it our life work, have enemies. We protect ourselves by staying alert and in front of changing technology. Those people there," he pointed to the opposite side of the glass, are our barrier against the NSA."

"The number of centers has grown."

"Not just grown, exploded. Since 9-11, we're not only listening to our enemies and friends, but we're listening in on more and more ordinary Americans at an alarming rate."

"You're talking the Oahu facility."

"Not just there," Gus said. "They've expanded every center—Lackland, Salt Lake City, Oak Ridge."

Sam frowned. "How safe is Mike? Ramsey must have access somehow."

"If not him, then someone in his pocket may, but let's think positive. Let's count on Westen's skills for not leaving a trail."

He turned and walked over to a screen and tapped on the keyboard. "There—there's the map of the building. You can work in Anders' office, since he's decided to have the bypass surgery."

"When did that happen?"

"Yesterday. Jesse talked to him."

#

#

#

Michael had drifted off to sleep again looking at the photos of his beautifully pregnant . . . wife.

That word—wife—was his first thought of the day when he woke. He glanced at the laptop, tapped the touchpad and watched as her images reappeared, side by side.

He traced the line of her cheek, and touched the lobe of her ear before brushing against the short hair by the nape of her neck, then moved to her sunlit image and traced the outline of her back, her shoulder, her breast and then their child. He closed his eyes once more and sensed her presence, her touch.

Opening his eyes again, he knew the time was coming when he would have to destroy the image files. To leave a single pixel of personal information behind was to invite trouble, intrusion. To leave a trail that could lead back to her . . . he absolutely could not lose her, lose them. But to have nothing . . . he didn't think he could do that, either. He would have to re-examine that.

He realized the voice in his memory bank belonged to Tom Card; his lecture on fundamentals in spy craft lived on. Perhaps it shouldn't.

On this point, it wouldn't.

Fiona would stay with him, and so would her photo.

Refreshed now that he had slept, and energized, he rose from the couch and headed to the shower. He needed to make Fiona his wife; the next challenge would be convincing her it was a good idea, because he suspected that would not be an easily accomplished task.

He smiled again and wondered if they would have a girl or a boy.

#

#

#

Raines found Sam in Anders Porter's office, reading through piles of paper reports.

"You're taking over now?"

Sam sat back in Porter's chair. "Porter won't need this office for a while, and being surveilled in my work environment pisses me off."

"I wouldn't have guessed. Anders is doing well after surgery, by the way."

Sam studied the man in front of him. "Unbelievable, the things you can do, Raines. I thought you were at a conference on global banking security in Atlanta."

"I was. Gus said you wanted to see me. I'm here."

"Got some questions. Maybe one will jog your memory. When Mike backtracked his burn notice, it led to a black ops creep named Phillip Cowan, but two days ago when I threw out the bone that you burned Mike, both Gus and Anders bit. Do you want to tell me how that happened?"

Raines grimaced. "Gus told me to expect this."

"Look," Sam said. "We're on the same side or we're not. Keeping info to yourself endangers Mike, endangers every one of us. How deep are you buried in black ops, Raines? And for how long?"

He didn't flinch or deflect the question. "White ops, Axe. Clandestine white ops," he said, emphasizing the distinction, even if it was his perception, not the reality.

"How long?"

"I should have known you'd be the one . . . almost fourteen years now. Unlike Gus or Anders, I don't have a family member left, so I don't need to be as cautious as they are."

"Gus is as involved as you. You two use Porter as the respectable, public front for SecuriCorp. Go ahead. Tell me Gus isn't CIA."

"Was. He hasn't been . . . lately."

Sam arched an eyebrow. "Lately?"

Raines was obviously debating something, another piece of information.

"I've been getting this story piecemeal. Inform me or cut me loose."

Raines arched an eyebrow and scoffed. "If I didn't need you, I'd cut you loose."

"Fine." Sam reached for his phone on the desktop and walked toward the door.

"Axe, get back here. Dammit, you and Westen are such pains—"

"Maybe we don't like being pawns on your board," Sam said. "I'm guessing Mike went dark when he figured it out."

"This is . . . this is . . ." Raines paced.

Sam rooted himself to the floor and scowled. They'd worked together years earlier when Raines was running CIA ops in northern Africa, he was with his SEAL team, and Mike was reporting to Siebels. Raines never emitted a hint of off-the-books activity, but there was one thing Sam knew about the straightest of straight shooters: sometimes they weren't.

"You have to realize how long it's taken us, taken me to gather this much information into a form we can see and understand. Forgive me, Axe, if I don't casually hand it over to you without taking a second look or a third or fourth at what I'm doing here!"

Raines' contained outburst nudged the credibility meter up a notch for Sam as he waited for his explanation.

"Visualize a gigantic tree," Raines said. "Walter Jacob Ramsey is the trunk. It used to belong to a telecom monster named John Barrett until Westen did whatever he did to flip that vehicle and kill him."

Sam sat back down in the desk chair with a thump while Raines paced. Barrett was a dark cloud he had not anticipated seeing again. That was the day Jesse had shot Mike to save him, but taking Barrett down had been a warrior's last stand effort for Mike; he nearly bled to death before they got to him.

"Vaughn was almost successful in claiming survivor's rights then, but between you, Jesse and Glenanne, that didn't happen. We realized too late when Vaughn moved on that vacant hotel or we could have offered you assistance, but you found it on your own. That saved the day, and I got in and pulled Westen out and away as fast as I could."

Sam grimaced. "And sucked him back into the CIA."

"Saved him. Isolated him. Protected him."

"He just wanted to clear his name, Raines. That hasn't changed. "

Raines scowled at him. "_It's . . . not . . . that . . . simple_," he gritted out.

"Sure it is."

"Being alive, is that simple enough for you? Do you get that yet? Now," he said, taking a breath, "it's the tree's root system that gives it life.

"Look below the surface and you'll see what feeds it. Drugs and arms dealers on the left. On the right you have the intelligence communities—friends and foes. In the middle you have this writhing group of people struggling for control and information—Vaughn, Management, Fullerton, Card and then all the interlopers looking for money and power and a chance to take over. There's a new bunch now we need to identify. They've been there all along; we just don't know their names yet.

"So the organization where the tree lived almost died. It was hemorrhaging because Westen had knocked such a big hole in it; then most of it disappeared when we went on that global arrest sweep."

Raines paused and stared at Sam for moment. "Unfortunately, that also created a window of opportunity for Ramsey to take over. He had his own team—Fullerton and Card here—and then there's his Middle East, African and Soviet support. Throw in some Chinese opportunists and—"

"This is twice as big as I thought it was," Sam said quietly.

"What you, Westen, Jesse, Glenanne and Pearce have done is whack away at that damned tree. You've lopped off limbs, done some root pruning, but not enough to really take it down. And even if we fell it, we know someone will make it sprout again."

Raines took a seat, leaned forward and held his head in his hands. The sound of electronics and temperature controlled cooling and ventilation equipment made the room hum.

"Raines, if you want peace, it's a myth. If that's what you want, you can't have it. As soon as this battle ends, another emerges."

"I just want justice for myself, Gus and Anders and Jesse. And maybe for you, Westen and Glenanne, too."

"Fi?"

He straightened up. "Arthur Meyer, MI6. Heard of him? Another pain in the ass."

Sam scowled. "He paid people to locate Fiona. I'm sure you know one of Pearce's informants found her in the Keys. Meyers and Greyson Miller's brother are the reason we relocated her back to Miami. Pearce said he'd gone rogue."

"Somehow, he's under Ramsey's thumb. Every time the CIA and MI6 have made a move his direction, he jumps."

"Got a short version of how you know that?"

"Just some guessing, nothing solid, but I've learned to listen to my gut. You should move Glenanne to the SecuriCorp complex. Someone can get to her where she's staying. It's much harder—"

"To get through the SecuriCorp's security. One more thing, Raines. Why isn't Gus as involved as he was?"

"Because his daughter is . . ."

When Sam's phone buzzed in his pocket, he picked it up. He frowned. It was Fiona.

"Sam, this is a gated community, but someone's watching this house."

"How many?"

"I tried calling Jesse, but his phone is off."

"Anders had surgery today; he's probably at the hospital."

"Oh, that's why Dani isn't answering her phone, either."

"Pearce? Why would she be there?"

"For Jesse. I thought you were an intel guy. Would you mind coming over? I don't move as fast as I used to."

"Walking out the door now," he said.

He met Raines' gaze. "She thinks someone's watching the house."

"That's because someone is probably watching the house."

"Here," Sam said, pulling a folded square of paper from his pocket. The two page report had been behind the note Mike enclosed in the box he'd sent to Jesse.

He handed it and the two AV tapes from Mike's interrogation of Riley to Raines. "For your collection of information that doesn't exist."

Raines unfolded the paper. It was Westen's report and evaluation of the Riley interviews. Quickly, he scanned pages one and two.

They both knew it would be questioned because Raines was the genius who'd devised the plan to make it seem as if Michael Westen, once burned, once discredited, tentatively restored to active duty, was psychologically unstable because he'd dropped off the map.

"Damn."

"My thought exactly," Sam agreed.

#

#

#

The last thing he did was to nuke the PC. Gray anticipated almost everything.

Michael used the high powered software that deleted every bit of history on the device. He'd also left all the necessary software in the desk drawer, so if the location remained safe, he'd be able to use it again. He was leaving as few trails as possible, and he'd already been in this location too long.

As soon as Jesse's package arrived, he collected it, brought it back to the apartment and read through the data he wanted. Once he absorbed it, he destroyed it, but he kept the small photo of Fiona.

It was the riskiest thing he was doing—taking things uniquely personal with him—things that connected him to her, but he had to. Knowing it was in his possession kept him focused. Sane.

He'd packed as much gear as he could in the olive drab canvas duffle bag with the US Army insignia. There was a zip-in liner for the field jacket, so he grabbed that and a watch cap, gloves and a pair of old-style leather combat boots to pack as well. Pennsylvania was cold this time of year. Gray's small collection of flannel shirts, jeans and sweaters fit inside the bag along with a space blanket and tightly rolled sleeping bag which also held two extra clips and a box of shells for the Ruger .45 from Gray's stash. He tucked in two phones, too—Jesse's phone and the prepaid burn phone he'd purchased.

Akhom Thabet was a currently international student who would be attending a special program at the US Army War College in Carlisle, and that would his next stop in his journey. He expected it'd be easy to catch a ride north if he got to the truck stop at the edge of town.

Thabet had provided the original Homeland Security directive that one Michael Westen was no longer a reliable asset.

He needed to know who Thabet's source was at Homeland, just one of several questions for him, despite the spy's admonishment to never contact him again.

His concern now was that in relocating his base of operation to Carlisle, the potential to run into Siebels or Captain Novak doubled.

#

#

#

Sam knocked at the door at the rear of the house instead of coming to the front door like he had the night before when he collected Madeline.

"Hey, there," he greeted her.

"Thanks for coming, Sam."

Sam was still stuck in an awkward place of remembering that argument that sent Fi to Key West. It was still too vivid to forget. Fiona seemed to have put it behind her, but Sam had not.

"Come into the bedroom and look. The car's still there."

"When did you notice it?"

"Two days ago. I thought it belonged to the neighbor, but last night after you left with Maddie, it was back. I was up before dawn and when I looked outside it was there. This morning it left and now it's there again. Someone's watching."

"Could be someone Meyers is paying," Sam said, then watched as Fiona grew pale and seemed to sway. He put his arm around her to steady her.

"I thought he was gone."

"Let's get you packed up again."

"No." She shook her head. "No."

"Be reasonable, Fi." As soon as the word _reasonable_ left his mouth, he knew he'd miscalculated. Fiona's stubborn meter zoomed from 0 to 60.

"I'll be fine, Sam. Why don't you just figure out who's out there?"

"We'll do that as soon as we get you somewhere safer, because if someone's watching you, you're not safe. Please, Fi?"

She frowned at him, and then left the room. Sam followed at a cautious distance.

"Fi? I'm sorry about this. I know you've had to move a lot, but we want to keep you safe. You understand that, right?"

"I understand plenty, Sam. I just want my own—oh, never mind." She turned and walked into the bedroom and started removing clothing from drawers, placing small piles of it on the bed next to a canvas suitcase.

"Your own what?"

"My own bed," she said. "I used to have one, before we set it on fire."

"We'll get you your own bed. I promise."

The expression on his face was so accommodating and so humble that Fiona blinked then had to smile at his pleading expression.

They stood on either side of the room and looked at each other. Sam sighed. "I'm sorry, Fi, for that day, for yelling at you, for being a crappy friend, for not being more grateful you and Mike saved my life, and for waiting so long to tell you I'm sorry."

She crossed the room and put her hands on his arms. "You're always where you need to be when I need you. Thank you."

He nodded. "Let's get out of here, okay? Grab what you need and I'll come back later and get the rest."

She returned to packing while Sam called Pearce.

"How's Jesse's dad?"

"Came through it just fine."

"I'm here with Fi; someone's been watching the house, so I'm moving her and taking her back to the hotel until we can get her someplace where no one will bother her."

"We should have taken her to Jesse's complex first."

"I agree, but Fiona needs input this time. Meantime, can you get a couple of Miami's finest to do a drive-by in the interest of national security? Get the plate? It's a dark grey Toyota Camry."

"Consider it done."

"See you later." He ended the call as Fiona came into the room.

"Fiona needs input?"

Sam turned at her question.

"Yeah, like do you prefer a townhouse, an apartment or a house in the SecuriCorp complex?"

"Right now, I just want to go someplace and rest."

#

#

#

"Thank you, kindly," Michael said, swinging out of the cab and jumping down. "I appreciate the ride and the company, Mo."

"Good luck to you, and thanks again for your service to our country. You got my number if you need another ride. Call it. I run this route at least once a month."

"Thanks again," Michael said, and lifted a hand to wave farewell to the trucker.

Big Mo had a son in the Guard who was serving in Afghanistan. When he saw the U.S. Army imprint on his duffle bag, he'd asked him if he'd been there. Michael could answer truthfully that he had, but several years earlier.

"Are we ever going to win that thing?" the driver asked.

"I don't know," Michael said honestly. "I think we make progress, but that's all we can do. The rest of it is up to the politicians."

"Don't get me started on them," he said.

"Okay, I won't," he said, chuckling.

There was ample proof that would involve a conversation of some duration, given the black on silver sticker Michael spotted back of the cab: Molon Labe.

The expression was the defiant response accorded to a Spartan king to the Persian army's demand to surrender their weapons. The words meant "come and take them." It was an invitation to war. The Spartans ultimately lost the three day battle, but they were victorious in their goal. Michael found himself thinking about that now.

He didn't want to lose his life to be victorious in the battle he was engaged in, because he realized the only way he would be able to protect Fiona and their child was to stay alive to do that.

Nate's death changed his perspective in many ways.

"Look at that," the driver said, slowing cautiously. "Black ice."

Ahead of them, they watched as a truck jackknifed and blocked two of three lanes of traffic.

By the time they could move again, it had started raining and the pavement on open bridges was freezing.

"We'll get you to Carlisle, man, but it's going to be dark by the time we're there. Sorry about that."

"Oh, don't apologize. I'm happy not to be walking. Thanks."

It was always better to arrive in darkness instead of daylight.

#

#

#

Allyson Novak ushered Dan Siebels into her husband's library and nudged her spouse into wakefulness.

He'd been sitting in a leather chair in front of a fire with a book on his lap, sleeping. Dan took the chair next to him.

The retired Army Captain inched upright and yawned. "I didn't intend to do that," he said with a smile for the exceedingly patient woman he'd been married to for 45 years.

"You never intend to do that," she said. "Dan, want some coffee? Tea?"

"Mmm. Tea."

"Honey?" she asked.

Her husband added his request. "Tea, Ally, if you don't mind."

"We don't have another class until next week, do we?" Novak asked Siebels. "Did I miss something?"

"No, we don't, but that's not why I'm here. I could swear I saw Michael Westen yesterday. If not, he has a twin."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Where'd you see him? He's not at the college, is he?"

"If you call working a sanitation service truck being at the college, then yes, he's at the college," Siebels said.

"Then he must be . . ."

"My thought, too. What do you suppose he's working on?"

"I know who to call. The question is, should we?"

Ally returned with a tray with a teapot, cups and a plate of cookies. "What are you debating, because if I have to relive that darned Bulldogs and Yellow Jackets game once more I'm going to move in with one of the kids, and I'm bringing Susan with me," she said pointedly to Dan.

"She'll probably go, too," Siebels chuckled. "No, we're talking about a former employee, one of Cap's Rangers."

"It must be Michael Westen."

"You know, since that strange eval we did for Raines, he's been on my mind. Maybe that's just leftover guilt for not believing him when he got burned. "

"He didn't look well then, did he?"

"Want to sleep on it?" Siebels asked.

"Yeah. I do."

#

#

#

Once again, Michael thanked Tyler Gray for his posthumous gifts of a place to stay and work, for clothing that almost fit, and for the name of the forger who'd created Gray's set of false documents. It'd taken more of his cash than he'd wanted to spend to obtain a set for himself, but now he could get a job, pass a drug test and be a nearly legitimate citizen.

He found the carriage house rental while he was leaving a grocery store. He was staying a night a time at different shelters and had been looking to rent someplace he could afford with his dwindling stash of cash.

Working for the sanitation department would suit his needs because it served the college and commercial areas near it. He'd applied for two jobs—one on a truck and the other as a janitor, and was waiting to see if they called him in for an interview.

The couple was posting their rental information on a large bulletin board area outside the store's interior and the exterior weather doors. After they left, he turned back and took down their flyer.

_We Need a Handyman_, the brochure said. _$50 per month rent and many repair tasks. We'll_ _work around your work hours_, the ad said. _No smokers or drinkers._ It was perfect. He followed them to their address on foot and knocked on a door.

He smiled and held up the ad when the woman answered the door; seconds later, her husband appeared and they invited him inside. After they determined that he had been in the military, and had applied for jobs even though he was not yet employed, they decided to rent the carriage house to him.

It was hardly a luxury accommodation, but it wasn't any better or worse than the loft. Michael loved it. "I can give you the $50 now, if you are interested in renting to me," he said.

They exchanged a glance. "Maybe you should see what we need to have done before you agree."

Painting three rooms, waxing and using a polishing machine on recently refinished hardwood floors, and installing new ceiling tile in the carriage house as well as insulating the floor were things he could easily do for them.

They agreed, but before they took his money, the wife had a task. "Can you fix that door lock there," she said. "It doesn't always work right."

Michael checked it, realized the problem and requested a crosshead screwdriver. Within minutes, the lock was repaired.

They took his money and showed him to his new place of rest—living quarters above what stored carriages a century earlier and now was their garage.

#

#

#

Fiona called Jesse and asked him to come over, so he did. It wasn't far, just across the tree lined boulevard.

Her new location was in one of the smaller SecuriCorp homes. It had two bedrooms, a bath and a half, an attached garage which now stored the car she wasn't using and Michael's Charger, and a kitchen at the end of what was described as a great room, even though its size didn't live up to the term.

In the early 1980s, SecuriCorp obtained the property and hired an architectural firm to design the residential complex to meet the needs of their upper level employees, consultants and visitors who demanded a high level of personal security.

It was, in many regards, life in an attractive prison with electronic guards, multiple back-up systems in the event of a security breech, and quick access to personal security if needed.

Fiona called it prison with keys for the inmates, and she was right. It was. A very pleasant prison where residents chose to lock themselves in to be safe and secure.

"I'll be back," Jesse told Dani who was seated his dining room, matching years and dates to Libyan spies that may have intersected with Arthur Meyers.

Meyers was a known quantity now, officially disavowed as an MI6 agent.

The bulletin came across with a survey of updated items of interest for the Miami CIA office, since that was his last known location. It also listed the item that Fiona Glenanne was being sought for questioning by MI6.

The Brits knew she was a protected CIA asset, so that brief item had received immediate and negative response from Case Agent Pearce who maintained contact with Glenanne.

Her contact at the State Department told her it was not what it seemed, but she did not believe him.

She knew it meant the UK was re-examining, at the request of the Miami Homeland Security office, the British-produced documents that detailed Fiona Glenanne's activities with the IRA. As a protected CIA asset, the request had been made several months earlier to clear Fiona's record and allow her to travel, without encumbrance, if she chose, to Ireland.

It was the timing and juxtaposition of the items in the briefing that made Dani Pearce lose her temper. "Since when do we play these games?" she'd asked. "This needs to be redacted immediately."

State said they'd do that, but she had yet to see it happen.

Somewhere Dani recalled seeing a file that linked Meyers to Card and Riley with a Libyan, if only she could locate it. She'd brought the documents she wanted to Jesse's place so she could work without her coworkers looking over her shoulder.

The table had been pushed into the corner to give her more usable surfaces, and she was using every available inch.

"I'll still be here," Dani said, looking up. "Did she sound okay?"

"As okay as she could sound, okay?"

"Okay."

She blinked and looked up.

He grinned when Dani made a face at him. "I hate it when you break my concentration."

"No you don't."

He saw the flush of pink against her neck and smiled.

"They need to remove that directive. I'm so mad I could spit tacks."

"I've noticed."

"Tell me one thing and do another. It needs to be fixed as soon as possible. Say hi to her, okay?"

"Back soon. Cool down. Or not."

She looked up at him then, saw that slow smile that always had the same effect on her and returned it.

She threw her pen down after he left. Her ability to concentrate was now officially ruined.

#

#

#

Fiona didn't waste a second once Jesse arrived. "Do you know where Michael is?"

"Ah . . ."

"I know you do. Tell me how."

"What's this about, Fi?"

She stepped closer to him, grabbed his hand and moved his palm flat against her belly.

He looked down, felt the movement beneath his hand and knew a sense of awe. He blinked and smiled. "That . . . is . . . so . . . cool."

"I need to see Michael and I need to see him in the next week because I won't be able to travel after that."

"When did you change your mind?" Jesse looked down to where she was still holding his hand against her belly. Finally, she released him.

"Does that matter?"

"Ah . . . "

"I changed my mind."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what . . . ," she paused. "Does Michael know? Did you tell him?"

He shook his head no. "I didn't _tell _him."

"Jesse."

"I sent him a picture."

She turned away from him then.

"He needed to know, Fi. That's his child, too."

She was shaking her head.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "He needed it, Fi."

"I asked you a question but you haven't answered. Where is he?"

"Pennsylvania."

She turned around and looked up into his face. "Will you take me there?"

"Why?"

"I need to talk to him."

Jesse studied her face and found himself agreeing, but then he would have agreed no matter what she would have asked him. He suspected she knew that.

"Let me figure out the details. This is not going to be easy."

#

#

#

Allyson Novak smiled and welcomed the young woman into her home. "Let me take your coat. It's nasty out there."

She glanced out the window and saw the dark SUV that brought her to the house slowly back down the small curve in the cobbled stone driveway. At the bottom, it skidded to the left and missed the mailbox by inches. It had started snowing about an hour ago, and the forecast predicted it would last through tomorrow.

She was startled that someone in the CIA had actually agreed to this. Someone with two ounces of common sense should have determined that this young woman was in no condition to travel, but she understood soldiers and soldiers' wives . . . or girlfriends.

She also understood the emotion of long distance separation and the sorrowful joy of children born without a father to hold them, and the sorrowful joy of the mother who did.

Her guest sat down on the bench by the door and used the boot jack to remove her boots, then left them dripping on the rug. She was glad to see thick socks covered her feet, and heavy leggings and a thick cabled sweater covered her small, rounded body.

The storm was expected to bring a combination of another seven to eight inches of wind-driven snow or sleet and freezing rain, but for now it looked like snow was arriving first. If they had to plan a weather event to assist in keeping their presence hidden from those who would keep track of such things, it couldn't have been more ideal.

Allyson knew he was there, but neither of them could speak . . . or would, she thought, while she remained in the room.

She reached for her coat and turned around.

"We'll be back tomorrow morning, Michael, if the roads are clear enough. We'll call before we start back."

His lips were pressed together and his eyes were damp and focused on Fiona. He swallowed and managed to speak. His voice was hoarse. "Thank you."

Allyson left the couple in the living room of her home, and stopped at the back door to pull on her boots, and grabbed her scarf and gloves. Locking the door behind her, she went down the steps and motioned for her husband to back out of the garage.

As soon as he did, she pulled the garage door shut and used the key lock to secure it, then stepped around her husband's newest delight, the snow blade he'd purchased recently and had mounted to the front of his vehicle. She opened the passenger door and climbed into the sturdy four-wheel drive truck.

"They'll be just fine," she said. "If she doesn't have the baby while she's here."

"She's that close? What was Porter thinking?" Cap let off the brake and clutch and backed down the driveway.

"He was probably remembering when Jesse was born."


End file.
